Vibrations
by Craft Rose
Summary: After three years of a mundane, sexless existence and far too much wine, our favourite brunette happens upon the magic equivalent of a sex line. There, an intriguing, deliciously devilish caller manages to pique her interest. It's all fun and anonymous, u
1. Chapter 1

Hermione glanced at the device on her kitchen counter with uncertainty. There were many peculiar devices in the magic world – time-travelling hourglasses, haunted diaries, flying broomsticks, messenger owls, invisible cars, living portraits, moving staircases – but none resembled the device in her hands. In truth, she bought it on a whim – on a stupid, thoughtless, desperate whim – under the constant reminder that all her friends were either married or on the road to being married.

Even Ron.

Even her tosser of an ex-boyfriend.

The nerve of him to get engaged after breaking up with her because he couldn't see himself being 'tied down' was enough to push her over the edge. It wasn't that she had feelings for him – because she didn't. It was the fact that even Ron managed to find someone to spend his life with, whereas she had barely been kissed in _three sodding years_.

This was more than a dry spell. This was a drought. This was the drought of all droughts.

She needed a shag.

She needed one **bad** – maybe twelve.

Hermione breathed in – resigned to the fact that she might never find the Mr. Darcy to her Elizabeth Bennett – and shifted her attention to the newest addition in her growing collection of sex toys. It was apparently all the rage in Eastern Europe, or so the shopkeeper claimed.

This device came in two parts.

The first part was a vibrator eight inches long and two inches wide – but with a twist. There were no controls. There were no speed settings or even an on/off switch. She had no control over it.

There was, however, someone in the world _with _control; someone with whom she could communicate using the second part, which happened to be an earpiece.

In other words, she had gone to an adult shop and spent about a week's earnings on glorified phone sex. It made her feel worse than pathetic, but she tried not to think about it as anything other than business. It was better than using her hand every night. This way, she at least had the illusion of another person – a paid professional – but another person nonetheless.

With trembling fingertips, she lifted the earpiece from its packaging and placed it in her right ear. The shopkeeper had given her one line of instruction – insert the earpiece and wait – so that's what she did.

Hermione poured herself a glass of wine and made her way from the kitchen to the lounge. She draped herself across the chaise. She stared up at the ceiling. She couldn't focus. She could only drink and blink and wonder what on earth had possessed her into thinking this was a good idea. Before long, her entire body was shaking with nerves. She felt ridiculous. She had no idea what to expect, when to expect or how to –

"_Hello_?"

"Er –" Hermione froze. "Huh – Hi."

There was a gentle laugh on the other end. "_You sound nervous_."

"I – erm – I've never done this before."

"_Never_?" he asked, vaguely young judging by the sound of his voice. "_Not even with a boyfriend_?"

Hermione thought back to her one and only relationship. "If talking with a mouthful of leftover takeaway counts, then my ex talked dirty to me all the time."

There was more laughter, but this time she joined in. "_I suppose that makes me your first_."

She smiled. "I suppose so."

"_In that case, let's start with something light. Tell me about your day_."

"My day? Erm – well – I had a rather rough start this morning. For some reason, my alarm clock wasn't working and I ended up an hour late for work."

"_That sounds bloody awful_," he remarked. "_This is why I love what I do. I work at night._"

"Lucky you," she grimaced. "I can't remember the last time I wasn't forced to wake up at an ungodly hour."

"_Sounds like you have a tough job_."

"I do…but I'd be lying if I said I don't love it. I get to travel loads."

"_Where to_?"

"Around Europe, most of the time," she explained. "It's usually business from arrival to departure, but I did manage to get into some innocent trouble in Amsterdam last spring."

"_Did you_?" he asked, delightfully impressed. "_How much trouble are we talking_?"

"No more than usual," Hermione shrugged, ignoring the mildly suggestive nature of her wording. "I – erm – I actually feel like I'm in more trouble right now, to be perfectly honest." Nervous laugh.

There was a pause on the other end. "_What makes you say that_?"

"…I'm talking to a complete stranger," she answered quietly. "No offense."

"_None taken_," he assured her, maintaining that air of youthful maturity. "_So, in the spirit of getting to know you, how about we play a game_?"

Hermione pushed herself into upright position and took another sip of wine, feeling it was necessary. "What sort of game?"

"_I'm thinking a modified game of truth or dare_," he explained. "_We take turns asking each other some harmless questions – and if one of us refuses to answer, we do a dare of the other person's choosing_."

She sucked on her bottom lip. "That sounds dangerous."

There was another pause on his end, as though he were caught between a smirk and a smile. She imagined it was quick, something faint that crossed his lips for barely a moment before he planned his next course of action.

"_I'll go first_," he started, interrupting her thoughts. "_Something easy. What's your favourite position_?"

Her jaw slammed open. "That is neither harmless nor easy!"

There it was again. The same smug little break. She was beginning to realize this bloke never missed a beat. "_You could always go for the dare_."

She scrunched her mouth to the side. "I think not, going by the state of your _easy _question." Another sip of wine. Another deep breath. "Right – favourite position. I suppose I like being – being on – on top." For some reason, she waited for him to laugh. He didn't. "Whatever that's called."

"_It's called cowgirl_. _A personal favourite of mine, as well_."

Hermione snorted. "Lazy arse."

"_Don't be so quick_," he laughed, with a touch of surprise. "_Fucking from underneath requires some serious core strength_."

There was another pause, but this one came from her end. The manner in which he uttered the fuck-word so casually made her lightheaded, though it could also have been a by-product of all that wine.

"I s'pose it's my turn," she mumbled, hoping she didn't sound as flustered as she felt. "If you could –"

"_I choose dare_."

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "I haven't even finished asking you my question!"

He didn't seem at all bothered. "_I'm curious to know what sort of dare you'd think up_."

The nerve of him.

"Fine," she decided. "…I dare _you_ to take off an article of clothing."

"_Cheeky_," he remarked. "_It's as if you know I'm sitting here in nothing but my boxers._" Before she could form a proper comment, there was some shifting about on the other end of the call, and then he was back. "_Dare complete_."

Her face paled. "Er –"

"_All right_. _In keeping with your previous answer about being on top, do you like to slide on and off your partner or do you prefer to rotate your hips and grind against your partner in slow circles_?"

She had yet to wrap her head around the fact that this mystery man was quite possibly talking to her in the nude. The mention of _sliding _and _grinding_ didn't help one bit. Her thoughts drifted to the last time she had sex – which was ages ago. Everything was in flashes. Every touch. Every feeling. Nothing was complete.

She tried to remember, to form a complete memory, but it was all frozen in staccato.

"_Is everything all right_?" he voiced.

Hermione swallowed hard. "I – yes – I just – It's been so long and – I – erm –" She closed her eyes, feeling ridiculous. He was just a random person. There was no need to be nervous. But something about him didn't feel at all random. In fact, her eyelids were beginning to ache from how hard she was squeezing them shut.

Finally, as if on their own accord, her hips began to move on the spot, right against the chaise. Her muscles relaxed. Her nerves dissipated. Her pulse quickened. She couldn't remember, but she could still pretend.

"_It's been a long time for you, hasn't it_?" he asked, abandoning the arrogance.

"Y – Yes."

"_Tell me what you're thinking about_."

It was the wine. It must have been the wine, because she wouldn't have said this sober. "You."

His voice lowered. "_Don't be_ _shy_." Deep breath. _"Tell me what you're doing._"

Hermione breathed in, bottom lip quivering. "I – I'm on top – rotating my hips in slow – slow circles."

This was insane. This was complete and utter insanity. She would never live this down.

"_Do you feel me against you_?" he furthered, dispelling her nerves.

Her blush deepened. "Y – Yes."

There was a change in his breathing. "_Where_?"

"B – Between my legs," she whispered. "Through my clothes."

Something about the manner in which he took a moment to exhale, made her entire body tremble in response. She had no idea it was possible to be so aroused by just the sound of someone's voice – a complete stranger, at that.

"_You're doing this wrong_," he said, sounding anything but displeased. "I'm_ supposed to be the one turning _you_ on_."

"S – Sorry."

His response was swift. "_Don't you dare apologize_."

"What – What would you do to me if you were here?" she managed to ask, cheeks flushed, slightly horrified with her own boldness.

"_Let me show you_."

Those four words both aroused and terrified her to the point that she had no choice but to give in to her body's desires. Her eyes fluttered open and she reached for the second part to her purchase, feeling the cold sleek exterior send a collection of shivers down her spine. It was long, silver and almost snake-like. She took a deep, rousing breath and spread herself across the nearest sofa, with the back of one hand resting delicately on her forehead and the other draped along her upper abdomen…holding tight.

There was a cool, summer draft coming in from the vents. She allowed it to envelope her, alongside every sensation coursing through her veins. She still couldn't believe this was happening.

"_Don't be afraid_," he told her, reading her thoughts. "_Just close your eyes and relax for me_. _I'll do the rest_."

Hermione followed his instruction. She breathed in and out, feeling like a nervous schoolgirl again, about to be touched for the first time. Her earlier bouts of nervousness had been replaced with an unexpected feeling. The anticipation collected in her chest and sprouted through every inch of her body. She couldn't focus on anything apart from the sound of her mystery man's hushed breathing.

She wondered where he was, what he was doing and most of all, what he looked like.

His wordplay suggested youthfulness. He can't have been more than twenty-five. But it was the sound of his voice that made her question everything. He was well versed, without sounding practiced. He was swift, without being haste. He was patient. He treaded lightly on the line between cockiness and confidence, in a way that told her he didn't always play fair.

This boy was bad.

But her wandering thoughts were eventually cut short. There was a gentle vibration against her upper abdomen. Hermione sucked in another breath, and released the sleek rod. It moved on its own, controlled by the person on the other end of the call. The shopkeeper hadn't told her about that feature, but she didn't mind.

She stirred, consumed by the shallow tremors, picturing her mystery man hovering over her with his strong, steady hands in place of the device.

"_How does that feel_?" he asked, kindling her inner flame with just the sound of his voice.

Hermione shifted, inadvertently spreading the gap between her knees. The rod skimmed along her torso, drawing wide circles around her abdomen. She could feel the rounded tip through the fabric of her dress. It then made contact with bare skin, gliding along the narrow space between her aching breasts. She yearned to strip off her clothes and feel everything the way it was meant, but her body had been rendered immobile.

Her man, whom she would henceforth refer to as Erik, after the phantom in her favourite novel, continued his foray into forbidden territory. He dragged the rod along her clavicle, against the protruding bone that framed her collar. He dismantled her inhibitions with each passing second.

She released a quaking breath. "Oh – Oh gods."

"_There are no gods here_," he relayed. "_Just me_."

The placid threat in his voice stimulated her senses. She could picture him clearer now, suspending himself above her with his warm, titillating breath along the inner curve of her neck, directly over her pulse, where the vibrations continued.

There was a sound on the other end, an expulsion of air that sounded something like a faint laugh, neither mockery nor insult. It was more disbelief. "_This is torturous_," Erik whispered. "_Being able to feel you without actually feeling you_."

She imagined he said things like this to all women, but even the chance that this was meant solely for her, made the space below her bellybutton come to life – completely and utterly responsive to her phantom's every whim.

The vibrations traveled from her neck to the line of her jaw and towards the bow of her mouth. Hermione could feel each individual tremor circulating through the rod – and without further provocation – she pressed her starved, quaking lips against the rounded tip and captured it in an open-mouthed kiss.

"_You, my love, are so sexy_," he murmured, as though he knew what she had done …as though he could feel it.

The second and third words resonated with her, causing heat to swirl around her face and neck, and pretty much everywhere else. She unconsciously tugged at the tie on her wrap dress and felt the emerald fabric cascade down her sides, leaving her exposed down the middle with just the thin white lace of her bra and panties for cover.

Hermione sighed with longing, as a gentle breeze tickled her bare skin. It felt as though even the slightest touch would detonate the energy building in her core. She wanted very much to let her phantom know how good this felt and how much she needed him, but words were no longer possible. She could barely form a single cohesive thought, let alone a sentence.

Judging by the subtle inflection in Erik's voice, he was equally, if not more dismantled. "_Just the sound of your breathing_," he furthered. "_You really have no idea, what I would do to you if I could touch you for real_."

She wanted to find out. There was no price she was unwilling to pay, in order to find out, and in order to uncover the mask that concealed him from her. But all they had to communicate these desires was the sleek, metallic device that seemed to gain speed with each painfully glorious second. Hermione was hanging onto the cusp of her sanity, chest heaving as she felt the tip outline her left nipple, coaxing it to life and then the other. The rosy peeks of her breasts hardened, practically poking through her bra, begging for release.

"_I want you to imagine my lips_," he said, speaking in hushed tones and delivering more delicious vibrations to the sensitive skin of her areolas. "_I want you to imagine my lips kissing you …right here_."

There was a divide between Hermione's own lips, providing passage for the moan that whirled up her larynx and over her tongue. Her eyes were half-lidded and shielded under the smoky, covetous haze that Erik fabricated with every word and every scenario. It was all in the details. It was all in the small, minute details in this entanglement of voices and feeling.

Hermione quietly admitted to herself that she had never felt so aroused, even in the presence of an actual man. This was the single most sinfully erotic thing she had ever done, and would probably ever do. She couldn't get enough. She couldn't stop the urges building in her chest and between her legs. She could only lie there and submit to her desires …to his.

"_Those seraphic sounds you make_," he disclosed, practically shuddering. "_I can't get enough_."

In the back of her mind, her thoughts lingered around the second word, knowing it was famously used in one particular novel; the novel from which her phantom had found his alias. It felt oddly personal, sharing this classic piece of literature with him, with the only stranger in the world that had managed to turn her into a hot, clumsy mess.

The vibrator abandoned her risen nipples and moved down her twitching stomach, to the hem of her panties. She wondered how the controls worked, but couldn't focus long enough to further this bout of curiosity. Instead, her thoughts were shrouded in the very real possibility that she would feel these vibrations in criminal places.

She needed this.

She needed this more than Erik would ever care to know, more than she would ever allow him to know.

"_Shall I do it_?" he asked, speaking slowly. "_Shall I fuck you_?"

There it was. The fuck-word. The combined flush and fissure in that single word made her weak. She wasn't one for cursing, but the way he did it, the way he spoke these words as though they formed the skeleton key to her one true place of worship, made her feel wicked.

This boy was more than bad. This boy was positively corrupt.

Hermione swallowed her nerves and breathed in and out, bit by bit, until the tip of the vibrator glided beneath her panties. The change in speed made her eyes roll to the back of her skull. She could feel her arousal dampen the lace, hot with desire.

"_I would give anything to smooth my tongue along your gorgeous cunt_," he confessed, tearing holes through her defense with each of these sinful words. "_Sing for me_, _angel_."

She whimpered, caught somewhere between a cry and a moan, relishing the onslaught. The rounded tip lapped her sensitive areas over and over again, coaxing moisture from her entrance with each motion, and probing her pulsing clitoris as though it were made for that purpose, for this moment.

It felt better than amazing. It felt divine.

Her pulse quickened. She closed her eyes and imagined him combing the damp hair from her forehead, blowing kisses onto her lips and pressing his own arousal between her thighs. She wondered if he was sitting there in a dimly lit room, stroking his erection as he divulged to her the many sinful things he wished to do to her mind, body and soul. She wondered if he imagined her, the way she imagined him. She wondered the colour of his hair and the look in his eyes.

These thoughts drove her up the wall with longing. There was so little she could do to satiate her growing appetite to know more. In fact, there was close to nothing. Her only through-line into this man's identity was the sound of his voice, and so far, she couldn't get enough of him.

The vibrations gained even more speed, causing her lower lips to tremble against the sleek exterior. Her core was throbbing. She could feel it. She could practically hear it. The vibrations. The wetness. The breathing on the other end of the call. Every facet of this fantasy come to life had her hanging by a single thread.

Hermione waited, holding her breath, shaking and drowning in hope.

The tip just barely outlined her entrance, extracting a guttural moan from deep in her core and then sliding inside her with her natural lubricant dripping from the base. She opened her mouth all the way and trembled. Her phantom responded to this with a deafening grunt that proved to her she was not alone in this whirlwind of lust.

Again, she wondered if this was a regular occurrence or something reserved solely for this particular call, something that had never happened before.

"_You're beautiful_."

Hermione exhaled. "You – You don't know that."

"_You're beautiful_," he repeated.

She had neither the time nor the focus to argue his point. She could feel the vibrations deep inside her. She grabbed the corners of the sofa with both hands, steadying herself as the device surged in and out. The first few times, it went all the way in and then all the way out, teasing her and testing her. She was grinding her teeth, aching for release, aching for the moment her senses would come together and then fall apart.

Erik innocently rotated the device inside her, adding new sensations to the old ones, unveiling a new level of pleasure she had never before experienced. He knew exactly what he was doing. He knew she wasn't a virginal princess dressed in a white sundress with flowers in her hair. He knew she needed something more, something harder and deeper and darker.

And, gods, was he was giving it to her.

Hermione dug her nails into the sofa as he slid in and out of her. The force combined with the second-by-second collision of what was happening and the possibility of more, had her delirious. There was no medicine for this sort of fever. There were no potions. There was no remedy. There was only the growing chance that one of these thrusts would eventually unravel her from the bottom up.

She breathed out, moaning and gasping for dear life.

She hoped these sounds turned him on. She hoped these sounds drove him over the edge of no return.

She hoped these sounds would ingrain themselves into the depths of his memory, where he'd be forced to remember this night, where he'd be forced to remember her.

Somewhere amidst these wayward hopes and throws of passion, Hermione felt a glimmer of something in her centre, where the vibrations twisted and turned and surged with incredible might. It started off small – powerful but small – like an ember that could still burn the first layer of her skin and then it grew – fanned by her phantom's desire mixed with her own – from an orange flicker to an all-consuming, cataclysmic wildfire that burst through every fibre of her corporeal being.

Hermione tossed her head back, knocking the daylights out of her as she slammed it against the armrest of her sofa. She cried out – chest heaving and heart racing – caught in wave after wave of rapturous triumph. Her face and hair was covered in sweat, in longing for this one moment, for this overtaking. She shook and quivered and practically bit a hole through her bottom lip.

The feeling consumed her wholly, so much so that she barely registered her phantom's mirroring reaction.

If there were ever any doubts.

She struggled to breathe, to make sense out of what had just happened, when suddenly the world came tumbling down on her. She was still in her flat. She was still in her lounge. She was still draped across her sofa. She was still in a call with a complete stranger, a stranger that had turned her inside out and left her quaking against the tremors of an earth-shattering orgasm.

He was there. She could hear him gasping for breath. She could hear him slowly regain control, as she had. But there were no words that came to mind, nothing to follow what he had done to her, nothing that could possibly compare to the madness that had ensued from one conversation with a stranger.

For all she knew, he was a dangerous person.

But even that made her flame burn brighter.

She could handle danger.

She and danger were on a first name basis.

"_I dare you to do this with me again_," he finally said, breaking the silence with his low, sensual voice.

Hermione felt something close to a giggle tickle the insides of her lips. She couldn't believe his audacity. She couldn't believe his boldness. She especially couldn't believe he remembered their game. She hadn't exactly given him an answer to his question, which left a dare.

"You're quite forward," she remarked, sounding impressed rather than irritated. "But I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to do this again."

He paused, undoubtedly smirking to himself. "_I'm technically going against the rules by even proposing we do this again._"

"What are the other rules?" Hermione asked.

"_There aren't many_," Erik explained. "_We can't exchange addresses or names, basically anything too personal_."

No names. This caused a hint of a frown to tug at the ends of her lips. She suppressed the sigh threatening to escape, and instead searched for an alternative.

"What about initials?" she inquired, precociously ingenuous. "Will you give me your initials?"

There was another break in their conversation, but this one didn't carry the hint of a smirk or a smile. It felt as though they had crossed into no-mans-land, into a place that was forbidden and uncharted. The looming silence made Hermione anxious, and she slowly opened her mouth to take back her invasive questions, to go back to the way things were with just jokes and innocent teasing but –

"_DM_," he answered, after several minutes. "_My initials are D and M._"

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, to thank him for giving her a response even though it was completely unwarranted. But the echo of his answer reverberated within her psyche, and a slow, crippling realization seized control of her body.

She sat there, in silence.

"_Is something wrong_?" her phantom asked.

"N – No," she muttered. "I – I just – I forgot I had to – erm –" It can't have been. There was no chance. There was absolutely no chance. "I – I have to go –"

"_Oh_."

Hermione pursed her eyes shut and tried to ignore the disappointment in his voice. But there was no way she could continue this conversation after – after – "I'm sorry," she breathed, gathering her limbs into upright position and taking one final moment to dwell in the aftermath of what had just happened, before lifting the earpiece from her ear, thereby ending the conversation, and placing it onto her coffee table.

She remained there, on the edge of her sofa, bewildered beyond words and comprehension.

"There's no way," Hermione spoke out loud, running both hands through her hair. "Fuck."

* * *

**Hello! Thanks for reading 'Vibrations' all the way through. This was a last-minute idea, inspired by the song 'Do I Wanna Know?' by _Arctic Monkeys. _  
**

**Thanks, again.**

**Cheers**

**xo.**

_**[UPDATE]: This used to be a one-shot, but I've added five new chapters! Give them a read and tell me what you think.**_


	2. Chapter 2 (if interested)

**A/N: Continuation of the one-shot (which I guess is no longer a one-shot lol).**

Hermione bolted across the street, heels scraping on wet pavement as she traveled to the adult shop about half a block down. It was called '_The Fountain of You_' (the title of which she had mistaken for something to do with sexual empowerment — **not** the horrific sex act of the same name). Needless to say, there were more than a few passing stares as she discreetly slowed her pace near those thick and obtrusive doors. It was mid-afternoon, which meant most people were safely tucked away in their offices, but there were still some stragglers out and about; enough to make the knot in her chest tighten with each lingering second.

It happened quick after that.

Door chimes sounded behind her, offsetting the pitter patter of rain along the angled rooftop and the flit in her chest as she entered. Inside, there were an abundance of frilly, phallic and downright frightening items lining the walls and shelves. Having spent about three seconds viewing her surroundings, Hermione could count on one hand the items she didn't already own in some variation.

Even so, the unease in her bloodstream had nothing to do with the arsenal of edible lingerie and lascivious mechanisms she had acquired over her, shall we say, three years' drought.

No, her unease had nothing to do with those items.

Just one item in particular, tucked along the inner pocket of her camel trench coat, from where she felt its length probe her side, reminiscent of the night it probed her elsewhere.

All she had to do was close her eyes and without fail, that voice and those initials and the slow, titillating vibration that accompanied those memories flooded her consciousness. Hermione swallowed, stuffing the tension and lingering doubt further down her esophagus. Resolved to handle her affairs and head back to work in a timely fashion, she moved to the front counter, where the same shopkeeper from two weeks ago was seated. A bohemian, free-spirited woman in her mid-fifties with long curly auburn hair held together with chopsticks, adorned in velvet, peacock blue robes; all which was in stark contrast to the dim lighting of her shop.

In another setting, Hermione would have pegged this woman to be an earthy artist of some sort — though she supposed one could argue sex work to be an art form in its own right.

Rhiannon, the shopkeeper, tilted her head forward, smiling to Hermione as she finished up a conversation via earpiece, motioning her customer to approach.

"I'll have a word with the suppliers," Rhiannon assured her caller. "Yes…I completely agree."

Hermione took a tentative step and wheeled one look around the shop, pretending not to eavesdrop. There was a vanilla candle burning on the check-out counter, filling her nostrils with its smooth aroma. It was an appropriate scent for a sex shop; sweet and suggestive without the intrusive qualities of, say, cinnamon or cardamom.

"Of course, of course, I understand," Rhiannon furthered. "Well, listen…I'll get back to you in a few….I have another customer here…Yes, absolutely…Don't you worry…Just pop by the shop and I'll have them fixed for you free of charge…"

Now attuned to the aroma and the overall vibe of the shop, Hermione turned back to the shopkeeper, met with another smile as Rhiannon removed the earpiece.

"So sorry about that," the older witch apologized, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. If stress lines were possible on Rhiannon, her face would definitely have been lined with them east to west. "There was a small defect with the new shipment of blueberry flavoured condoms, and without going into grave detail, let's just say the flavour wasn't as much blue_berry _as it was blue wa —"

Hermione turned, in rhythm with Rhiannon, as the sound of door chimes filled the shop. Tall, dressed in a smart, black peacoat with his face blocked by an umbrella, another customer had entered. But the moment he closed his umbrella was the moment he ducked behind one of the nearby shelves, obstructing him from Hermione's line of vision. She didn't blame him. From what little of him she had seen, he looked normal, which meant being in a sex shop in the middle of the day was as incriminating as it sounded.

"So," Rhiannon interjected, bringing her attention back to the front. "What can I do for you?"

"Erm —" Hermione paused, opening her mouth and then closing it. She hadn't prepared for an audience. In fact, she was now fighting the urge to leave the shop altogether and simply toss the _device _in the bin, as opposed to returning it; the latter of which had been her original plan. "I — erm — I was wondering about your return policy on — erm — on my most recent purchase."

The woman sighed, momentarily downcast, before flipping through the file on her counter and landing on the purchase in question. "Right, here we are…" she voiced. "The Two-Way Touch."

Hermione's bottom lip twitched. "Er — yes, that one."

"Was there a mechanical problem?" Rhiannon asked, confused. "I've had nothing but rave reviews from the other ladies."

"Not a mechanical problem, no."

"Oh?"

Again, there was a twitch on Hermione's lip. "I just — erm — I've no use for it."

Rhiannon nodded along. "Nothing to worry about. There are plenty of customers with stage fright."

"It's not stage fright," she quickly added.

"Well, unless it's a mechanical problem, I'm afraid I can't refund you," Rhiannon explained. "Sorry. Store policy."

Hermione swallowed, no longer concerned with a refund. "That's no problem," she blurted. "I'll just — I'll give it to a friend." Without further word, and with her head tilted firmly to the hardwood floor, she turned on the heel of her boot and raced to the door, cheeks and neck hot with embarrassment and then alarm, as she slammed face first into the chest beneath that peacoat.

Rhiannon looked on over the counter, eyes wide as she watched the scene unfold.

"Oh my — I'm so sorry —" Hermione apologized, stepping back from the stranger and watching with sheer horror as one slender metallic device escaped the confines of her trench coat and fell to the floor with an ominous, echoing _clunk_.

It would probably have fared wiser to carry the device in its packaging, but she couldn't for the life of her find it anywhere in the black hole of clutter that made up her place of residence.

Only then, did things take a turn for the worst.

Despite the shrill, piercing voice in her head urging her not to, she fixed her attention forward, to where Mr. Peacoat stood. In the half second it took for her knees to buckle and the warmth along her cheeks and neck to turn into searing, scorching heat, she noticed three things about him.

Number One: He was hotter than she remembered. Like, blindingly so.

Number Two: He was smirking at her.

Number Three: He was no longer pale and wraithlike. In fact, there was a noticeable amount of colour to him, both in his complexion and his eyes, which captured hers in one fell swoop.

Hermione stumbled backward, colliding with a shelf of edible underwear, causing several candy thongs to litter the floor _with _her vibrator, the inner workings of which had been knocked about from the fall, rendering the device on, filling the deafening silence with its hard hum.

* * *

In the time it took for the discombobulated witch to collect her composure and race through the door, he noticed three things about her.

Number One: She was clumsier than he remembered.

Number Two: She was decorated with an Auror badge, which led him to believe the Golden Trio had done their duty and come full circle. Joy…

Number Three: She knew.

**A/N: More to come! Literally. **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: It warms my heart to see such positive response for the previous chapter! Thank you so much. Here's another. **

It was nearing midnight, when Hermione decided she couldn't sleep.

Nine hours, and she still couldn't erase the image of those eyes and that smirk from her consciousness. It was bad, to the point that she strongly considered brewing a last minute batch of Sleeping Draught. To her misfortune, she didn't have the necessary ingredients, but what she did have was an unopened bottle of Elvish Wine…and if she couldn't sleep through the night, she at least reserved the right to drink.

Resolved to her sleepless fate, Hermione lifted the covers from her form and moved to the kitchen, where she uncorked the wine and drank straight from the bottle.

Her commitment to alcohol was the closest thing to a relationship she had since Ron. Pitiful, really…but alcohol had never wronged her the way men had done, nor had alcohol forgotten her birthday. No, alcohol was always present on her birthday (and Christmas, and Valentine's, and most Bank Holidays, as well as the weekend and those long, endless nights spent with Mr. Darcy and Chinese takeaway). It was safe to assume she appreciated a fine wine, the way Harry appreciated a polished broomstick and the way Neville appreciated magical greenery. Quite uncharacteristic of someone with her reputation (being the bookish brunette, and all) but she wasn't half as much of a prude as her reputation let on.

Hermione was reminded of this fact as she moved to the dimness of her lounge and found an earpiece on top of the centre table…beckoning her forth with its sexual beige.

Jokes.

Either way, the sight of the earpiece made her toes curl, though not in a terrible sense.

It was clear she had forgotten about the earpiece during her earlier journey to Rhiannon's shop. In fact, it wasn't so much the vibrator (which she had abandoned on the floor of the shop…vibrating) that bothered her most. It was that damned earpiece. It was the voice that came through, and the manner in which her body responded to it — to _him_.

Again, her thoughts drifted to that night.

_DM_, he had told her. _My initials are D and M_.

She sunk into the nearest loveseat, bottle in hand. It was no secret that what happened earlier in the day had played a number on her, but it wasn't so much the idea of _him _being _him _that kept her awake at night. It was the fact that she didn't mind…at all. In fact, the mere idea of her mystery man being the same one she had seen in the shop left her...slightly…breathless?

There was still a chance the entire thing had been a coincidence, and that running into him in the shop had no direct correlation with those initials (or that voice, which sounded dauntingly familiar, the more she thought about it).

No, she had completely overreacted.

Hanging up on him was more than a mistake. There had to be dozens of wizards in the London area with those initials. The fact that she had even considered _him _to be the man behind the voice was ludicrous. After all, what would _he_, ferret boy extraordinaire, be doing on a sex line? As an operator, no less.

Yes, she had overreacted and reached an impossible conclusion based on minimal evidence.

Suddenly cross with herself for abandoning the vibrator, Hermione turned to the earpiece. It was exactly where she had left it that night, after which she had left the country on a business trip. Again, she was reminded of her conversation with the mystery man, having explained to him her hectic schedule and all the traveling that came with it.

He was…charming.

Charming, and not at all ferret-like.

That in mind, she did something she promised herself she would never do. Not again, anyway.

Hermione lifted the earpiece from the centre table and popped it in, waiting as the wine dulled her senses and as the distant sound of rain pitter pattered in the background. She waited patiently. For whom, she hadn't the slightest idea. For what, she could only hope.

"_Hello! You've reached Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. My name is George, what can I do for you?_"

Her face blanched. "Erm —"

Just like last time, there was a chuckle on the other end. "_Kidding._"

"Right," she half-laughed, levelling her nervousness, trying to form a dignified response. "So, erm, you know George Weasley?"

"_I'm sure half the wizarding world knows George Weasley. He's good friends with Harry Potter, no?_"

Hermione swallowed, listening to the names of her close friends with that same lingering doubt scratching the surface. "That's true," she reasoned. "The Daily Prophet _does_ make a spectacle out of Harry — Harry _Potter_ and his friends."

"_Especially the cute brunette._"

"The cute brunette?" she repeated, cheeks aflame.

Though she couldn't see him, it was clear he had nodded. "_You know, the one with the strange name. She's in the newspaper at least three or four times a month, advocating for house elves and chasing criminals to the ground. Quite a busy body, isn't she?_"

"Er…I…I suppose so."

"…_but you didn't call me to talk about Hermione Granger, did you?_"

Something tugged at her chest muscles, the moment her name left his lips…in that voice. "I don't mind. I, erm, I actually called to apologize for what happened last time."

"_No need,_" he assured her, sounding sincere. "_I'm here for your pleasure, remember? That means you can do as you please, for as long as you please, no questions asked. All my clients can._"

"Sounds lonely," she thought aloud, before she could stop herself. "Being used like that."

Again, he laughed, though it was more affectionate than anything else. "_I appreciate your concern, but I don't look at it as 'being used' per se. It's more personal than that, something I would liken to therapy. In fact, I'll let you in on a little secret_," he offered. "_Most callers aren't looking for sexual gratification. Just someone to talk to, and I don't mind being that person_."

She blinked. "Well that's…quite admirable."

"_Me? Admirable?_" he chuckled. "_Now that's a first._"

"Oh?"

"_Speaking of lonely,_" he furthered, swiftly changing the topic. "_How's your sex life?_"

Hermione sighed with mock despair. "As lively as Professor Binns on a Monday morning."

"_Or any morning._"

"Or any morning," she agreed, smiling. "I'll take that as confirmation that you attended Hogwarts."

"_I did,_" he confirmed. "…_but enough about me._"

"Uh oh."

"_Uh oh?_"

"I feel another one of those 'harmless' and 'easy' questions coming along," the witch furthered.

"_What, like, asking for your initials?_" he teased.

She pursed her lips, nodding. "I deserved that."

Again, he laughed, this time at her expense. "_I find it insulting that you think I would waste my question on something as trivial as your initials,_" he admonished, sarcastically. "_If I truly wanted to put you on the spot, I would simply ask your name._"

Hermione froze.

"…_but I won't,_" he continued. "_…because that would get me sacked._"

The knot in her chest loosened some. "So…then what _are_ you going to ask?"

There was a pause on his end, reminiscent of their previous conversation. It lasted a long time, about three minutes. So long, in fact, that Hermione questioned whether he was there, whether their call had cut out, whether he had left her hanging, in the same manner she had left him. The last option left an inconsolable lump in her stomach, one that grew with each passing second.

Finally, after three minutes of waiting, the silence was cut short.

"_What's your favourite band?_" he asked, in a tone that was slightly different from his usual.

Hermione blinked, surprised but not disenchanted. "Well, it's hard to narrow down, but I've recently been listening to a lot of Muse," she explained. "Do you know Muse?"

"_I have tickets to their show on Saturday._"

The knot tightened. "Me, too."

Again, there was a pause on his end. Though, unlike last time, it was accompanied by something.

Hermione listened closely, recognizing Matt Bellamy's vocals. It seemed, in light of their shared interest, her mystery man played the track 'Hysteria'. She closed her eyes, suspended in the song.

A tiny voice in her head confirmed to her that her earlier suspicions were far from the truth. There was no chance in hell ferret boy would listen to Muggle music, let alone attend a Muggle concert.

Something about that relaxed the tension in her muscles, but the knot in her chest remained.

"_I like talking to you,_" he confessed. "_You know…like this._"

She smiled. "I do, too."

There was another laugh on his end, warmhearted and cordial. "_Well, that's not to say I don't enjoy talking to you the other way, as well…_"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she fibbed. "Care to remind me?"

"_You cheeky, little…_"

Hermione chuckled.

"_…beauty._"

"You don't know that," she added. "I could be hideous."

"_You could be,_" he agreed. "_You could also be strikingly beautiful without the slightest idea._ _My bets are on the latter,_" her mystery man furthered. "_If I had to venture a guess, I'd say it's all in your eyes…in the way you observe people and situations, the way you absorb information, lost in your own reverie._"

She breathed in, distantly aware of the heat that dashed across her face and neck. "That's…"

"_Creepy?_"

"I was going to say thorough."

"_Works for me,_" he decided, confident in his assessment. "_Would you like me to continue?_"

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "There's more?"

"_Of course, there's more. I'm thorough, remember?_"

"Right," she smiled. "Carry on."

He cleared his throat. "_I don't think you're desperate, like you think I think you are. I think you could walk outside of your house right now, and charm a dozen men without batting an eye. I think, the core of your problem, is that you don't know what you want and because of that, it's difficult for you to form relationships outside of your usual social circle._"

She blinked, hard. "Well, then…"

"_If I had venture another guess, I'd say you've dated someone very close to you and that the relationship ended badly, not because you didn't care for each other, but because it was never meant to work out._"

Hermione took another drink of wine, feeling it necessary. "Do you psychoanalyze all your clients?"

"_No,_" he offered, casual. "_Just the ones that interest me._"

"Oh, heavens…pray tell, what is it about my mundane existence you find so interesting?"

To this, he laughed. "_The fact that you use expressions like 'pray tell' in regular conversation, for one._"

She grimaced.

"…_and the fact that you still don't know._"

"What don't I know?" Hermione asked, the latter end of his statement sobering her right up.

"_Now, why would I ruin all the fun and tell you?_" he nixed.

She rose a little. "Because…"

"_Come now,_" the man smoothly interjected. "_A little ambiguity never hurt anyone._"

"Fine," she frowned. "But I'll have you know, I don't take well to refusal. In fact, few have experienced my wrath and lived to tell the tale."

"_Darling, as long as you reserve that wrath for me…I'm in. Chains, whips, shackles, whatever you want._"

There was a raise in her brow. "So you're a masochist."

"_I aim to please,_" he furthered. "_Tell me, what pleases you?_"

"Oh dear…" Hermione voiced, drinking more wine, using the back of her hand to wipe. "Erm…in bed?"

"_Sure, but something tells me you prefer elsewhere. I'm thinking outside or in a public venue._"

"Ha!" she exclaimed. "That's where you're wrong. I've never had sex outside _or _in public."

"_But you would,_" he concluded. "_I already know you aren't afraid of thinking outside the box, considering how we met, and that you like being in control, considering your preference for being on top. Though, the latter could easily have nothing to do with control, and everything to do with the natural stimulation of the clitoris…which then begs the question…did your boyfriend give your clit enough attention?_"

Hermione swallowed. "He — what does that have to do with anything?"

"_I'll take that as a firm no,_" the man gathered, too smug for his own good.

She narrowed her eyes. "If you must know, he went down on me three or four times a week — sometimes daily."

"_Did he make you come?_"

"I — he — that —" Hermione breathed in and out, sharply. "I don't orgasm easily," she retorted, having no idea why she felt the need to defend Ron. "Not that, that's any of your business."

"_You seemed to orgasm just fine the last time we chatted._"

She opened her mouth, appalled and then silenced.

"_Don't be so cross,_" he murmured to her. "_This is about you, making you feel good. Just close your eyes…let me guide you._"

"Guide me…?" Hermione repeated, faintly.

With that, the temperature in the room transitioned to a slow burn. She had no idea what he looked like or what he was about. For all she knew, he was a serial killer with a hook for a hand and a handwritten notebook filled with detailed accounts of his murderous acts. Then again…he didn't sound dangerous…not in a murderous sense, anyway. If anything, he seemed the reformed bad boy type, which was dangerous in its own special way, but she tried not to think too long about the chances of that being true.

Against her better judgment, she followed his instruction.

Her eyes fluttered shut. She set down the bottle of wine, breathing in and out, slowly and evenly, trying to control the raucous beat of her heart. Everything, including the pitter patter of rain and the music on his end of the call, faded into the background. The room was silent and still, save for the sound of her hushed breathing and the small voice in her head.

"_I want you to imagine an open field,_" he started. "…_summertime, warm, a cool breeze tickling the grass and the ends of your hair, as you lay under a willow tree with your favourite book in your hands. Your hair is down to your elbows in long, curly tresses, and you're wearing a thin white sundress. It's late in the evening, meaning the sun has escaped beneath the horizon, colouring the clear skies in the pale glow of twilight. You're enthralled by the book, racing against the fading light with those big, bright eyes of yours skimming left to right. Inside, your inner flame burns brighter with each word you read, with each second you spend in that fantastical reality. You don't want it to end, but it does…leaving your sun kissed skin warm with longing and your heart racing. It's a familiar feeling, one you know well…_"

Hermione listened carefully, feeling the brush of her subconscious illustrate the mood and the setting. His voice echoed deep in her core, where she heard him and felt him, fighting the rush of feelings that erupted in her chest as he coloured her world with his dauntingly accurate portrayal.

"_You need release,_" he whispered to her, narrating the thoughts and the feelings racing through her veins.

There was a part in her lips, from where she drew in another lungful of air. "Yes," she whispered back, as more of a confession than a confirmation.

For a moment, her man was left suspended in the wake of her declaration. "_It's dark now,_" he furthered. "_You set the book down, and with your eyes closed…you lay across the grass, breathing in and out…the skirt of your dress around your hips, and your fingertips traveling down your torso, grazing the fabric, reaching the bottom hem…_"

Hermione exhaled, realizing then that she'd been holding her breath.

"_It's been a long time for you…_" he said to her, wielding her emotions with only his words. "_You crave the touch of another person. You crave the catch and the release, and that hot, unyielding fire…and although you're alone in that field, you hear a voice and your body responds to it with a pin drop of energy…one that sprouts from your core to the tips of your toes and back again…leaving your breath hard and heavy, and your fingertips struggling to keep up…_" Following that, there was a pause. She was hanging on the edge of his narration, panting on the outside and purring on the inside. "_Slowly, your fingers skim the surface of your inner thighs, dragging the hem of your dress even higher, after which the cool, summer breeze tickles your bare skin, causing your chest to contract and the taut tips of your tits to tighten in response. You brush over them with your free hand, first over the dress and then under…where you lower the straps and bathe your bare breasts in the darkness of night. It's a precarious position…but you don't shy away from such things. You live for danger. It excites you, almost as much as what your other hand is doing between your legs…_"

Somewhere along the line, his narration had turned into reality. Hermione was sprawled on the loveseat, her knees raised and the draw string of her pyjama bottoms undone, providing room for her hand as it skimmed past the fabric of her knickers. It was safe to assume she was wet down there, not incredibly so, but enough to coat the tips of her fingers as she rubbed in slow, excruciating circles.

Without meaning to, she moaned, breathlessly, unconsciously informing him of her actions.

"_You're thinking about him…_" he continued, softly. "_Somewhere in the world, he's thinking about you, too…about what he would do to you…with you…about the many ways he would devour you…your lips…your neck…your breasts…and lower…where your sweetness has beckoned him since the first night, since the first time he heard you come undone. It's a torturous thing, isn't it? Being so far away, so distant...but you find ways to cope. You imagine him hovering over you, brushing his lips against yours, kissing you softly…because no one has ever taken the time to do just that…to show you affection amidst the heat and the slow, building desire. If he could…he would kiss you for hours, he would run his fingers through your hair and bring your mouth to his, using lips and then the gentle stroke of his tongue, foreshadowing what will soon follow._"

Hermione opened her eyes then, slowly, startled by the hairline of moisture along her lower lash line, quickly wiping it away.

"_It's been a long time for him, too…_"

She breathed in, listening.

"_It's not so much about the release, as it is about the closeness of another person, the shared body heat…the mutual undoing._" His voice wavered some. From there, he spared a couple seconds to collect himself, and then carried on. "_Your lips separate,_" he narrated. "…_and in that moment, he takes the time to look at you, to take you in, to study your eyelashes and the contours of your face and body, before moving lower, from your mouth, to your breasts, to your abdomen and then your core. It comes over you in waves…the feel of his tongue on your wet heat. You want to moan, but all you can do is breathe, lacing your fingers in his hair and quivering against him, as he licks you out…_"

"Gods…" Hermione released, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the onslaught. "It's like you do this for a living or something."

There was a gentle laugh on his end, before he continued. "_In all honesty, he's wanted to do this to you for longer than you're able to comprehend, and it shows in the way he takes his time to taste you and feel you and lap your sensitive areas over and over again, bringing you closer and closer to the edge of that cliff, to the free fall…_"

Her hand was moving faster now, in tighter circles, bringing an arch to her back and sweat to her hairline, where a number of wayward strands adhered to her neck and forehead, as she imagined it all.

"_Countless minutes have gone by, perhaps an hour. You've no idea. You're enraptured in the movement between your legs, in the probing tongue of your partner and tip of his index finger as he skims your entrance. In response, you glance down at him, conveying to him the desires burning deep inside you…overcome with the feel of his digit as it joins those desires, fanning your flame, beckoning you, moving in the tightness of your channel, slipping in and out, twisting, teasing, simultaneous with his tongue as he licks you and flicks you and fucks you with vigour like you've never experienced._"

In an instant, her muscles tensed, frozen in the fire of his words, in the undertaking, in the inflection of his voice and the tight, blinding implosion that followed.

Hermione shot upright, panting, chest heaving, fingers shaking, sinking deeper and deeper in the throes.

Passion.

Fire.

Suspended in that position for what felt like eternity, she fell backward, feathering over the loveseat, eyes fluttering shut and the reality of what happened digging holes through her defences.

He did it again.

He made her orgasm...and this time, without the vibrator. Merlin...

She swallowed hard, doing what little she could to calm the nerves that flitted through her body.

It was a long time before either of them spoke, so long she almost forgot he was there.

"_Truth or dare,_" he tried.

Hermione exhaled, gathering her hair to one side and swinging her legs to the floor, collecting her mess of emotions. "Dare," she said to him, without thinking.

His next words caused the dying ember in her chest to flicker to life, from where her senses caught light, responding to him in the only way her body knew how. "_See me,_" he voiced, chancing it all. "_I'll wait for you at the pub, the one down the road from the concert venue._"

She couldn't think. She could only speak. "How will I…know what you look like?"

"_You'll know,_" he simply said, causing that voice in her head to start up again, repeating the obvious until she could hear little else. "_Bring a friend, if you like. Just…know that I mean you no harm._"

"Good to know," Hermione added, feeling a small smile tug at the corners of her lips, having the sneaking suspicion he was smiling, too. "But...won't you get sacked for meeting a client?"

He paused. About three seconds. "_Don't worry about that,_" he said to her, as though he had something figured out. "_Some things are worth the risk, you know?_"

The warmth eclipsed her doubts. "Yeah…I think I do."

Silence followed.

Comfortable silence.

It lasted one minute, maybe two. Long enough that her heartbeat had returned to normal pace.

"I…I guess I'll see you Saturday…" she voiced, hearing the words and feeling their weight, as well as the weight that rested on her eyelids.

With one look at the clock, she noticed it was half one in the morning. She had to wake up in about four hours' time, and although she was now exhausted beyond measure, she was also alert and aware of each sound that came in through the earpiece. Thankfully, his voice soon followed.

"_See you Saturday,_" he confirmed, mirroring her nervousness and anticipation with some of his own. "_I'll try not to disappoint._"

**A/N: Oh snap. **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: There's going to be a song mentioned in this chapter. I highly recommend you listen to it (at the time and mark mentioned) whilst reading. Really sets the mood. **

She had to admit — for a last minute ensemble, her outfit looked mighty fine.

Normally, for nights out, Hermione opted for casual attire (band t-shirts, trousers, boots, and certainly no makeup). But this night was different, in that she wasn't _just _dressing for the Muse concert. With one look in the mirror, she undid the clasp in her hair and ruffled her curls a bit, allowing them to fall loosely to her elbows in chocolate spirals. She couldn't look _too _overdressed. Just enough to show she cared a little, not to show that she had raced to the shops after work and dropped an uncomfortable amount of money on something brand new. Still, she was content with the end result — a little black dress matched with a biker jacket, and some heels to class up the affair.

On second thought, perhaps the dress was a bit much…

Hermione frowned, heavily considering her usual attire until she remembered the amount of money she spent.

No, the dress and heels would have to do. If her co-workers ventured to ask, she would just have to fib her way out of it and hope the lot of them weren't feeling particularly nosy — because those were the people with whom she planned on attending the concert. Just a few friends from the department. As planned, she would meet them inside the venue, thirty minutes before the show was scheduled to start, which left an hour or so to do _the thing_.

Satisfied with her ensemble and less nervous, thanks to a shot of liquor and some calming music, she took her clutch and proceeded out the door.

* * *

It was an uncomfortable thing, waiting.

Draco's eyes drifted to the time on his wristwatch. Half nine. He'd been there for an hour, alone, with two drinks down and nerves in his chest. It would probably have fared wiser to schedule a designated meeting time, but he wasn't thinking straight during that call and his co-caller hadn't contacted him since then. For all he knew, she had no intention of meeting him and had only agreed because she felt obligated to — or because she felt sorry for him.

There was no need, of course.

His life, although different, was nothing to pity.

Through his inheritance, he bought an enormous home in the most expensive district of wizarding London, and shares in some promising companies, as well as a collection of artwork that would have made even Musée d'Orsay pale in comparison. On top of that, he was the chief executive officer of Malfoy Apothecary — a family business, of course, but one he had worked tooth and nail to save after his and his parents' involvement in the war had been revealed to the public.

All in all, it was safe to assume he had high income and learned hard work, the hard way.

But none of those things held a candle to his most recent venture.

It was called 'The Two-Way Touch' and was chiefly owned and operated by his best friend, Blaise Zabini, with whom he had brainstormed the idea after a night out in Kiev. To them, it was more of a hobby than anything else, but the business was growing and for that reason, became quite demanding. Being CEO of something as high profile as Malfoy Apothecary and CFO of his and Blaise's venture left him little to no free time.

Only at night, did he have a moment to breathe and regroup. But even those hours were devoted to the new business. In the start, both he and Blaise thought it wise to work as operators, but the business was no longer in its start up phase. Over the last couple months alone, it had experienced exponential growth, which was the reason they had expanded from Eastern Europe to the UK, and even to America. Because of this, Blaise proposed they put their operator statuses to rest, and focus on the business side.

Though, for obvious reasons, Draco found it difficult.

Blaise had no idea his friend continued to work as an operator, and although Draco felt bad keeping the information from his business partner, he wasn't about to explain his reasoning.

There was one rule, one rule ingrained to the minds of each and every operator under their employment. **Do not exchange personal information with clients. **For all parties involved, this was the best course of action, and although Draco had lived by this rule for months, he had obviously broken it the night he first talked to her — to Granger.

It wasn't obvious, at first, but he knew within one minute of conversation. There was no mistaking it. She was the one. She was the woman on the other end of that call. It was clear to him, particularly when she had scolded him for asking her favourite sex position. He knew that tone. He'd inspired that tone — _that outrage_ — on a regular basis during their time at Hogwarts; long enough to recognize it anywhere.

For that reason alone, he was a little offended when she didn't recognize _his_ smug, sarcastic tone of voice. Could it be, that so many years had passed? Could it be, they were that old? Or worst of all…could it be, she had forgotten all about him?

No, not true.

One, because she ended that first call within seconds of his confession. Meaning, she obviously remembered his name, enough to connect the dots between that and the initials he'd given her.

Two, because she wasn't _just_ shocked and embarrassed to see him in Rhiannon's shop. No, she was downright mortified and then, as his eyes lingered on her for a little longer than intended, less than disappointed.

It faded quick, but he knew that look, he knew that alarm and the dash of intrigue that followed.

In that single moment, she bolted out of the shop without a word.

That, was to be expected.

But what he hadn't expected was a follow-up conversation, and her denial. Somehow, she had managed to convince herself he wasn't the man with whom she had shared that first encounter. Luckily, he didn't mind. Seeing her in the sex shop restored his conviction — enough that he could privately admit he was attracted to her.

More than attracted. Maybe a little infatuated…obsessed? No, not obsessed. Not really.

Either way, what happened later that night, during their second conversation, took him by surprise. Going into it, he had no intention of complimenting her or dropping such hard, heavy hints. Part of him was insulted she refused to accept the truth. But another part of him relished that fact, which propelled him into asking her to meet before the concert.

That in mind, he sat amidst an enormous group of people, most of whom were pre-drinking before the show. It was close to nine forty-five, when he had another look at the time, taking measured sips as to not inebriate his senses too far. No, he had to keep his wits about him. His wits were the sole reason the witch had agreed to meet. Or…was it his talent for dirty talk?

He couldn't decide.

Beyond that, he didn't have time to decide.

Draco observed as several men steer their attention to the entrance. Curious to know what was happening, he followed their sheepish, and in some cases, rather salacious, stares and felt his chest contract. It happened then. She was there, and bloody hell, had she _arrived_. With concentrated effort, his jaw remained closed. But that didn't stop his eyes from wandering, from taking her in, head to toe.

Her clothes and hair weren't drenched in rain, as they had been the day at the shop. No, she wasn't a mess — though he quite fancied her either way.

For that night, she had her hair down in natural spirals and applied light makeup, dressed in an eye-catching black number; the skirt of which rose a couple inches above her knees, swaying as she turned, searching for him in the crowd. The dress alone was quite fancy for a concert, but she played it down with a biker jacket and minimal jewelry. In fact, the only pieces of jewelry he saw on her were a pair of earrings, ones he recognized from when they were teenagers — sentimental value, perhaps. Seconds later, he noticed her peep-toe heels and the manner in which they elongated her legs, punctuating each step she took with a light _click_.

Feeling lightheaded, he breathed, watching from a safe distance. She had her back turned to him, and somehow failed to notice the only pale blonde head of hair in the vicinity. That in mind, a small smirk found his lips and without another second to spare, he rose from his seat, slowly, and moved to the bar.

She was there, nursing what looked like an extra dirty martini.

It was all quite film noir, the more he thought about it. Minus the crime, of course. Though, he supposed it was a bit of a crime to leave her hanging. With _her_ mind and _her_ level of anxiety, which bordered close to obsessive compulsive disorder, she _had to be _losing her cool. Her calm, composed demeanour didn't fool him for a second. He knew that foot tapping and hair tucking. He'd been around her enough times, during high-stress situations, to know.

Again, he smirked, thinking about all the times he'd positioned himself near her during exams. Back then, it was a cheating tactic, but through that, he managed to recognize her quirks. It seemed she'd developed another, in her adult years. Without fail, she sipped on her extra dirty martini in three and then five second increments; alternating between the two, to appear normal.

_Merlin, she truly is a nutter_…

Draco hovered about seven feet behind her, before the voice that he presumed to be his conscience, convinced him to cut the shite and be the gentleman his mother raised him to be.

In the distance, he heard 'Blue Veins' by _The Raconteurs_. It was about twenty-eight seconds in, filling his ears with the piano keys and the subsequent strum of the bass guitar, in rhythm with the low, even beat in his chest, as he combed a hand through his fringe and moved forth.

"Gin and tonic," he ordered, making brief eye contact with the bartender. "Cheers, mate."

Drink in hand, he settled in one of the stools, aware that someplace a few stools down, there was a woman dressed in black.

It happened slowly — and then fast.

Her eyes meandered in his direction, the moment she sensed someone near. Lazily, she tilted her attention to the right, where he was, and then back again, at her drink, unfazed — until the image of that same blonde head of hair burned holes through her consciousness. Heart racing and muscles tense, she snapped another look in his direction and froze.

Draco watched it unfold through his peripheral vision, keeping cool against the drum of his chest.

It was around this time, that the song reached its chorus, transitioning the scene to black and white, under the shadow of the hard, blues ballad.

In the seconds that followed, he felt the pull of her gaze travel from the surface of his skin to the depths of his veins. Only then, did he do as she'd been waiting him to do since the start. Draco took one drink from his gin and tonic, silent and still, as the alcohol calmed his nerves, and slowed the drum in his ribcage to a calm, even pace.

With only his eyes, he looked at her…not at her touchable legs, one folded over the other, nor the brush of cleavage that escaped beneath the neckline of her dress. No, not those places. In that moment, he reserved his attention for her most vulnerable place.

Her eyes.

Bright brown, filled to the brim with mingled shock, uncertainty, and apprehension, and eventually…the serene quietude that was acceptance, her eyes fluttered shut…and by the time they opened again, he was closer.

Drink in hand, he moved to the seat beside hers, about a foot away, far enough that he wasn't imposing on her, but close enough to catch scent of her perfume. It was light and distinctly different from the floral scent he remembered as a teenager, running this witch's confidence and self-esteem to the ground, whilst holding a candle for her, resolved to believe she would never find out.

Granger breathed in, her chest rising but never falling.

She looked at him, at his tousled hair, hovering in wisps over his stormy grey eyes, and his clothes, smart and black, as well as his hands, as he used one finger to trace the rim of his drink. She focused on that single movement, with a reddish hue to her cheeks and neck. Then, right on cue, her eyes wandered to his lips, and in that same second, a small quiver ran through hers.

If he knew one thing for certain, it's that she was thinking about what he had said, about kissing her, about running his fingers through her hair and making love to her with only his lips.

Only then, did she exhale.

"Looking forward to Muse?" he asked, aware that her blush deepened, the moment she heard his voice.

Granger blinked. "_OH_ — right." She tucked an invisible strand of hair behind her ear. "The concert."

For some inexplicable reason, he wanted her to know he was nervous, too. But he remained silent, opting instead to drink from his gin and tonic, hoping the action of doing so would disentangle the knot in his chest.

"I can't wait to hear 'Undisclosed Desires'," Granger said, sharing her favourite song. "What about you?"

Draco looked to her then, dropping his attention from her eyes to her lips, and back again. "I don't know," he furthered. "I could stand to wait a little longer."

Though it was fast, he caught the heat that danced across her face.

She tucked another invisible strand, cheeks aflame and face turned to her drink. From there, she took the garnish, which consisted of one olive, and devoured it. Though, not before licking a drop of liquid from it, with the olive between her lips. Draco watched through the corner of his eye, wishing _he_ had a garnish on _his_ drink, with which _he_ could have seduced _her_. But all he had was the knot in his chest, and the drink to dull it. Content with that, he brought the drink to his mouth — a little too fast — and in doing so, caused a bit to dribble down his chin. Startled, he caught the beed of liquid with his left knuckle.

Granger sniggered in response. "Nice save."

He paused, waiting a moment, before breaking into a smile. "If I'd known spilling drink on myself would break the ice, I'd have done it sooner."

"Break the ice…" she repeated, blinking. "…whatever for?"

Before he could respond with an equally sarcastic comment, the bartender came around and fixed them a second round of drinks. Until then, Draco hadn't noticed he'd finished his first. Perhaps he was more nervous than he realized. There was no reason, really. Granger didn't seem disappointed. Surprised, yes. Maybe a little embarrassed, too. But not disappointed.

That in mind, he drank from his vodka neat, slowly, as to keep his wits about him…again. Granger took a similar approach. He had a feeling they carried the same train of thought. There wasn't much time before the show started, which left them at a crossroads.

"I better head to the venue," she realized, catching a glimpse of the time on his wristwatch. "I told my friends I'd meet them ten minutes ago."

Draco nodded, having lost track of time. "Yeah, me, too."

It was an awkward end to their 'first' meeting, but there was nothing to be done. Draco covered the tab for both rounds and held the door open, as he and Granger left the pub. She seemed startled by the gesture. It was cold outside — brisk and biting. Draco shoved his hands into his pockets as they crossed the street, wondering how women managed to walk, let alone run in high heeled shoes. More than that, how was Granger able to do so? Last he checked, she was as clumsy as ever.

Memories of the sex shop flooded his brain, and he tried not to laugh, but the sight of her, mortified, with her vibrator grinding against the hardwood, between them, would forever be etched into his memory. No matter where the night took them, he would always have that image.

Seconds later, it happened.

Granger turned to him, as they reached the doors. "Er…"

"See you…after the show?" Draco asked.

She breathed out, cheeks pink from the cold. "Yeah…I…I'd like that."

In the perfect world, he would have asked to stand with her and watch the show together, but he wasn't sure how comfortable she was with being seen with him — around her friends, no less. Because of that, he didn't risk it and opted to part with her once they walked through those doors.

Though, not before an awkward 'see you later' moment.

There were countless people inside, moving about, chatting, drinking, chuffed to see Muse and to start the night with a bang. Draco glanced to his left, where Granger stood, having forgotten how small she was. Even with heels, she reached no higher than his shoulders. Granted, he was on the taller side, but still. He turned to her, blocking her from a couple drunken buffoons, cursing as they nudged him into her.

"Sorry —" he blurted, sidestepping a little, to avoid knocking her over.

Her eyes widened, and then relaxed, once she realized what happened. "Don't worry," she mouthed.

The music in the background was loud. It wasn't Muse. It was the opening band.

Draco wheeled one look around and found his friends' heads bobbing about near the front. No doubt, they were wondering where he was. He faced Granger again, and opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. It was too loud to communicate from such a distance. Instead, he leaned forward, to her ear, slow enough that she could have backed away, had she wanted to, but she didn't.

"I'll wait here," he said to her, having learned from his earlier mistake of not planning things thoroughly enough. "Once the show's over."

Granger stood on the tips of her toes to respond. Her fingertips skimmed his forearms, as she tried to keep balance. "Oh — sorry — I —"

"It's okay," Draco quickly broke through, holding her in place, with his hands loosely around her waist. In an instant, he dropped them. "I — I'll see you soon, I guess."

"Yeah," she nodded, tossing one look over her shoulder, where he presumed her friends were standing. "Erm — should we —"

"If you —"

"Only if you —"

"I do," he spoke, rather candidly. "Do you?"

Granger opened her mouth and then closed it, as another one of those buffoons came hurdling past them. This time, Draco hadn't been paying close enough attention to block the collision. But he did have quick reflexes and because of that, he managed to catch her before she tumbled to the floor. She gasped, glancing back at the buffoon and then at him, cheeks flushed, as she noticed his arms were around her waist again, tighter…

Without meaning to, their wishes had been realized. It wasn't quite the hug he'd imagined, but being close to her felt nice. In this position, he was close enough to catch the freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose, and the natural curl of her eyelashes. _Merlin_, he thought to himself. _She really is beautiful_.

"Hmm?" Granger mouthed to him. "I didn't catch that."

His pulse quickened, once he realized he'd spoken out loud. "Erm —" He set her down. "Unimportant."

Her eyes narrowed a moment, inherently skeptical, before she tossed another look at her friends. "I should — I should probably head over there before they send out a search party."

"Oh — right," he nodded, slightly crestfallen. "Have a nice night."

"You, too," she smiled.

From there, they separated. He moved to the front, where his friends stood across the stage, and she to the bar, where hers hung back to observe without getting trampled. It settled him to know she wouldn't be run over by another drunken buffoon. She really was quite small…

Though, before he knew it, before he had the chance to look back at her, the lights dimmed and the crowd cheered around him, erupting in a mixture of shouts and applause, as Muse entered the stage.

**A/N: Ahhh, so nervous about this chapter haha. Writing from Draco's perspective is challenging. Hope you liked it! **


	5. Chapter 5

Hermione weaved through the audience, mind buzzing and ears ringing. It was, undoubtedly, the best live performance she had seen since Glastonbury Festival. She didn't consider herself to be the biggest music fan, but she did attend the odd show now and then, which prompted her to attend the Muse concert with her friends. It surprised her, the number of witches and wizards that listened to muggle bands. Though, if there was one thing that would never be lost in translation, she supposed it was music.

That in mind, Hermione parted with her friends and moved to the doors.

Although she paid close attention to the performance and especially, the delicious Matt Bellamy, her chest fluttered when she thought about _him_, standing in the same vicinity, listening to the same music, caught in the same whirlwind between what was happening and what had happened. She thought distantly about the pub, and how nervous she had been upon entering. To be fair, she arrived about twenty minutes later than she had intended — but that was only due to the fact that there were _dozens _of pubs in the area. With great effort, she found the one he'd mentioned, after waiting in the wrong pub for about fifteen minutes. It was all a bit disorganized, if she had to be honest.

But the rapid beat in her chest had little to do with that.

She found his blonde head of hair near the door. Dressed for the night; his attire, which consisted of dark denim, black henley and black overcoat, matched with dragonskin boots, was in contrast to his alabaster skin tone and diamond blonde hair, colouring him with an otherworldly look. She noticed several women, and several men, devour him with mingled desire and determination. Something about that made her skin crawl. Though, she supposed it wasn't a terrible shock. Even in their teen years, he'd been something of a hot commodity. Most witches had either loathed him with the fire of a thousand suns or yearned to tear the Slytherin Quidditch uniform from his taut, rigid muscles and have him right there on the floor.

Her own interests fell with the former, of course.

But there was the odd moment, here and there, wherein the latter lingered in the back of her subconscious; during Potions class, when he exhibited an apparent talent for the subject and more often than not, had his potions assignments done and complete before she had even reached the halfway point. Of course, he was an attractive specimen, with money and etiquette, but none of those things held a candle to the fact that he was an intellectual.

And now, as an adult, he had learned to utilize that intellect, and the impressive vocabulary with which it came, for something other than teasing and insults. Well — he still teased, but in a different way, in a way that made her temperature rise with anticipation, instead of anger or contempt.

Bearing that, Hermione continued to weave through the audience, shoved backward and forward, before a rather drunken gentleman took it upon himself to knock her directly to the floor. Now, with an ego bruised worse than her arse, she cursed at the buffoon and then at herself, as she noticed the heel on her left shoe had snapped, leaving her attempts to rise from the sticky floor to be thoroughly amusing, she was sure.

"_Merlin_ —" someone voiced, nudging their way through the crowd. "Are you okay?"

The brunette squeezed her eyes shut, recognizing his voice within an earshot.

With one arm under her shoulders, he helped her outside and draped his coat over the nearest curb before setting her down. She opened her mouth to protest, as the pavement was wet from the previous morning's rainfall and would therefore ruin his coat, but he didn't seem to catch her hurried words. Instead, he removed the shoe from her left foot, which was thankfully pedicured, and with one look over his shoulder to make sure they were unseen, he used a quick wave of wandless magic to adhere the broken heel back on.

"There," he finished, sliding the shoe to the slender arch of her foot, before his eyes bounced to hers.

She released her bottom lip, having bitten down on it rather hard. "You — You didn't have to —"

"I wanted to —"

His response was cut short when an ill-timed fight broke out on the other side of the street. Something about someone eyeing someone else the wrong way. It was a Saturday night, after all.

Hermione turned back to him. "Well — erm — thanks."

"Don't mention it," Malfoy voiced, helping her from the curb, before spelling the dampness from his coat and proceeding to drape it over her shoulders.

To this, she arched an eyebrow. "You're not cold?"

"Not in the slightest," he smoothed over.

Hermione thought to protest, seeing as the temperature was close to arctic, but she fell silent the moment his scent filled her nostrils. It was subtle, and laced within the wool of his coat. Classic, contemporary and masculine, with notes of iris, amber and leather, and as she breathed in deeper, his natural musk, too. Her chest contracted then, and she forced herself to concentrate elsewhere.

Somewhere along the line, he offered his arm to her, and she took it.

The wizard seemed unfazed. On second thought, he seemed rather content. "So," he started. "Did you like the show?"

For a moment, she had no idea what he was talking about.

"_Oh_ — erm," Hermione thought back. "It was brilliant. I loved the acoustic rendition of —"

"Time Is Running Out?"

She nodded, in rapid succession, memories flooding her mind. "Few things are better than Matt Bellamy singing about sex and infatuation."

"I'm quite sure that song is about drugs," countered Malfoy.

Hermione shook her head. "No, no, no…" she chided. "It's clearly about sex."

"Well, you know the saying," he reasoned, tipping his head to her. "Seek, and ye shall find."

She tossed him a scornful look. "Are you implying my mind is in the gutter?"

"Never…" the blonde winked.

Hermione rolled her eyes, smiling.

In the next few minutes, she followed him into an unfamiliar district of London. Their surroundings were _rich _and _grand_, and distinctly Victorian but with a modern feel, like something from a steampunk novel. Only, there was no one outside. It was all rather sinister; with flickering street lamps, swirling fog and the distant sound of crows overhead.

"Er — where are we?" Hermione asked, looking around, unconsciously slipping her hand into his.

Malfoy glanced between them and then to her; a faint smile on his lips. "Serpent's Crossing."

Her cheeks blanched. "_Serp_ — the pureblood settlement?"

He nodded, tilting his head to the row of townhouses across the street. "Just over there, is where I live."

She tossed an indiscernible look at him. "You're taking me home?" the witch questioned. "That's awfully presumptuous."

"You're the presumptuous one," he laughed, holding her with a hand on the small of her back, as the pair of them crossed the street and ascended the stairs leading to his front door.

The townhouses were bone white, with black numbering, tall, thin, black doors, wrought iron railings and the distinct aura of _luxury_. Strange, for townhouses. Though, she presumed the cost of living there, in that area, to be way, _waaay _out of her budget.

"Er —" She paused, inching backward as he unlocked the door. "You sure I won't burst into flames?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes and without warning, held her slender body to his and lifted her from the front step to the marble-floored foyer of his home. Hermione yelped, cheeks flushed as he set her down. Inside, his home was dim, with moonlight breaking in through the windows. She turned quickly, as he closed the door behind them, feeling a wave of uncertainty.

"If you're going to tie me up and toss me in a dungeon — _I'd at least like some warning,_" she called out, only half-joking.

Behind her, he chuckled, illuminating the foyer with his wand. "When that happens, you'll be willing," he teased, nodding his head for her to follow. "Come, I've something that belongs to you."

Hermione arched an eyebrow, tossing one look over her shoulder, before running to catch up with him. It seemed he quite liked black and white, as everything from the floor to the furniture, and even the artwork carried the theme. Not bad, for a single lad. Though, she much preferred the theme of her own flat, which consisted of a mishmash of items from around the world.

She followed him through the torchlit corridor and into the room at the end, which, as he opened the door, she recognized to be an office of some sort. Unlike the rest of the house, his office was coloured with the Slytherin tones of emerald and silver, and carried the scent of fresh parchment. Hermione inhaled, feeling the orgasmic bliss that was _knowledge _settling deep within her core.

"It's in here somewhere…" he mumbled, brushing past her and rummaging through the contents of his desk, for Merlin knows what. "Have a look around. I'll be a moment."

Before the words left his mouth, she made her way to the nearest bookshelf and traced one digit along the spines. Judging by the weathered condition of his collection, he seemed to read a fair amount. She took a moment to treasure this fact, before moving on to the next bookshelf, where she recognized a first edition copy of _Ulysses _in its own section, behind what looked to be a charmed barrier.

Her eyes widened, and she turned to him. "How on earth — Where — You can't possibly be _that _rich."

Without looking at her, he shrugged. "It was passed down to me by my grandfather."

"Your grandfather was interested in muggle literature?" she questioned.

"Films, music, and artwork, too…" the man added. "Not all purebloods are as militant as the Dark Lord."

Hermione paused. "Right — sorry."

"No worries," he assured her. "Ah, here we are." Finally, after three or so minutes, he managed to locate the item for which he'd been searching, and without warning, he tossed it to her. "_Catch_."

Her muscles tensed. In slow motion, she watched the item soar between them, from one end of the room to the other, before holding out both hands and feeling that cold, sleek exterior slide through her fingertips and clatter to the floor.

"Or not," Malfoy snickered.

The brunette scowled at him, and then at the floor. In a flash, the hardness escaped her features. "Oh my —" She snapped her attention forward, mortified. "You _kept _it?"

He leaned against the front edge of his desk, hands in his pockets. "But of course. It's a token of our bond. A souvenir, if you will."

"It's —" Her voice hitched. "It's a _used _vibrator."

Malfoy tilted his head down, shoulders shaking with laughter. "Oh, Granger."

"Don't _'Oh, Granger'_ me," she snapped, marching over to him and using one finger to poke his chest. To her astonishment, his chest was rather hard. In fact, she was sure poking him, hurt her more than it hurt him, but she hid the tinge of pain with deepening disdain. "That's what this is about? You asked to see me after the concert, with the sole purpose of luring me here and humiliating me?"

He tossed her an obvious look. "_Come now,_" he scoffed. "I'm simply returning a lost item."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're Draco Malfoy."

"So?"

"_So_," she enunciated. "I know better than to believe your intentions are pure."

Again with those eyes, he studied her.

It was rather difficult to maintain her stance, when he looked at her like that; with the smokiness in those orbs swirling around her, holding her still; the fringe of his hair hanging low, in wisps of white blonde; the top buttons on his henley undone, providing view of his lean chest muscles; and the dampness of his lips beckoning her forth, as he swiped the tip of his tongue between them — _quick_, as though he were sending her a message.

Hermione swallowed, redirecting her attention. "Here," she mumbled, shoving the vibrator to his chest. "I don't want it."

"You sure?" he voiced, the moment she turned her back to him.

Without bothering to respond, she moved forth, to the door, and brushed her hand along the brass knob. It was milliseconds, before footsteps sounded from behind.

She froze, eyes closed as Malfoy neared.

He hovered about six inches away. It wasn't terribly close, not as close as when she raced to his desk, but close enough that she felt his breath tickle her hair. "I'm sorry," he apologized, sounding rather…sincere. "I had no intention of humiliating you. Please know that, Hermione."

In almost two decades of knowing one another, he had never once addressed her using her given name. It was always her surname, or something to do with her blood heritage. Her chest rose, as she realized.

"I understand and respect your decision to leave. I just — I'd like to tell you something before that happens," he added.

She listened.

* * *

For some inane reason, he found it appropriate to show that he'd kept the vibrator from their run-in at the sex shop. Granger was _well _within her rights to be mortified, and downright furious. He was sure the run-in hadn't been as pleasant for her, as it had been for him, and he had also miscalculated their level of camaraderie by a long shot. In all this mess, he learned one important thing about her.

She wasn't comfortable around him.

She laughed with him, listened to the same music, read the same books, and valued liquor almost as much as he did — but she was nowhere near comfortable.

That, he had not realized.

Until then, of course.

Draco waited, standing several inches behind her, collecting what remained of his confidence and hoping it would be enough to convince this woman that he meant her no disrespect. In fact, he rather dreaded the idea of ending the night on such a horrible note. For days — weeks, really — he'd imagined meeting her. To have that dream become reality was more than he could comprehend.

But the longer he waited, the further away that dream traveled, second by second…

"I'll be blunt about it," he decided, hearing the words echo back at him, focusing on the curls in her hair, as she stood with her back turned to him. "I knew, leading up to tonight, that you were the person on the other end of those calls. I recognized your voice within minutes of that first conversation, and to say I was shocked would be an understatement," he explained, hoping it wouldn't backfire. "…but more than that, I was thrilled by the chance to learn more about you, with a clean slate. I wanted to know you, the way Weasley does — _did_. I couldn't see that happening under normal circumstances, so I took my chances…"

In front of him, Granger tensed. "You knew?" she voiced, quietly.

It was difficult to decipher her tone, whether she was angered or disheartened or indifferent.

"You knew it was me?" she asked again, slowly, waiting several seconds before facing him.

She turned on one heel, the one he'd repaired outside the concert venue. Memories of the incident flooded his mind and left him teetering, before his attention snapped back to her.

Draco nodded, absorbing the sight of her; the curls in her hair; the flush of her cheeks; the bright brown of her eyes; the look of his coat draped over her shoulders, in contrast with the bareness of her legs; and the narrow gap between her lips, as she breathed in and out, visibly softened by the information.

"You knew," she said, one more time, without the added inflection of an inquiry. "…and still, you wanted to meet me." It baffled her, and he didn't know why. "How is that possible?"

"_How_?" Draco repeated, dazed and then disoriented and then determined. "I'll show you how."

Having failed to catch the latter end of his declaration, the brunette gasped, wide-eyed, as he leaned over to her, slowly at first, and then fast. She, with her back against the door, and he, with one hand in her hair and the other around her waist, drawing her closer to him. Draco kissed her. Full-bodied and delirious, caught in the cosmic catch and release, it took several moments before either of them realized what was happening.

In that time, he loosened his hold on her, realizing his approach was _a little _on the aggressive side. As he drew back, she leaned with him, in his direction; cheeks flushed and heaviness in breath.

Draco stammered. "I — I'm sorry. I — I shouldn't have —"

"You kissed me," her voice broke through, floored.

"I kissed you," he repeated. "…and I have the sneaking suspicion you're about to smack me."

Granger paused, tossing another one of those indiscernible looks at him, before the message became clear.

There was a hitch in his chest. "Yeah?"

She nodded once, looking at him. "If you don't mind…"

With enormous restraint, Draco kept from mauling her. It happened slower this time. It happened softer, as he moved closer to her, brushing two or three fingers under her chin and tilting his down to meet hers. She closed her eyes. His remained open one moment longer, as he took an extra second to burn the image of her, like this, in the depths of his subconscious. _Merlin knows if this'll ever happen again_. Bearing that in his mind, he took his time and after three or four seconds of simply absorbing her, his eyelids slammed shut and his lips ghosted hers.

She quivered in response, ending with an earnest intonation for more. It was delivered to him in a single vibration, as she unconsciously moaned against his lips. Draco moved closer then, skimming her lips once more, leaving her flustered and feathery, before deepening the kiss. She moaned again, melting into him, as he ran his hands through her hair and then down her sides. Somewhere along the line, his coat fell from her shoulders, cascading to the floor in a soundless descent.

Draco switched the angle of his head from left to right, harmonizing with her as she kissed him back. Her movements were tentative and timid, at first, as though she hadn't kissed anyone in months — or longer. It was no dilemma to him. He accommodated her slow, bashful kisses, and punctuated them with circles along the small of her back, using only his fingertips.

It startled him when he felt the soft swipe of her tongue. In an instant, he reciprocated, opening his mouth to her and stroking her tongue with the tip of his, in soft but precise movements. She sunk deeper into his arms, delicate without being docile.

"_More…_" the witch murmured, directly over his lips.

Oh, he had more. Just one touch from her, one sound, reminded him how much more he did have.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and shoulders, steadying the weakness in her knees. From there, he tightened his hold on her, drawing her close with his hands on her hips. Now thirsting for more, their kiss transitioned from light and exploratory, to frantic and feverish.

His desire for her was no secret, but the reveal of her desire for him crashed over their kiss in tidal waves. Granger arched her back towards him, unconsciously pressing her chest against his, causing his blood to travel _that much _faster.

Moments later, their lips separated, as both struggled to breathe and bring oxygen to their bodies. In those few seconds, Draco caught sight of the tousled look about her hair and the way her dress had shifted slightly, too far to the left. Something about that made his muscles tense and the rabid animal in his chest to pound hard against the confines of his ribcage. He waited no longer.

Granger tilted her head back, releasing several expulsions of air, short and sharp, as Draco fragmented his kiss from her lips to the inner curve of her neck, murmuring to her between each touch. Her lips twitched apart and she moaned for him, caught in the heat and the bone deep arousal. Miliseconds of this, and she lifted her leg around him, undulating to his body as he grasped her thigh and brought her even closer.

The man tried to hide it as best he could, but there was no doubt she could feel it. "I swear I didn't have this planned," he whispered to her, trying to distract from hardness in his trousers.

"Liar," she admonished, a faint smile on her lips.

"Okay, maybe I was hoping for it a little…" he confessed. "Fine, _a lot_."

Her body shook with hushed laughter, replaced with a swift intake of air, as he kissed her once more. It wasn't long after that, that _the look_ was exchanged; the look to indicate what was to happen next, and in how many ways…


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: final chapter, and it's a long one! **

Hermione followed him upstairs. It started to rain outside, light and hard at the same time, punctuating the flutter in her chest with the soothing ambiance. She noted the hand that danced across her lower back, and the man to whom it was attached. It was difficult to focus on anything else. Once he opened the door, she entered the master bedroom. Similar to the office, his room was coloured in shades of emerald and silver, with dark wooden furniture and tall windows, from where she observed the cobbled streets.

It was as dark inside, as it was outside.

Behind her, he neared. "Would you like something to drink?" he asked, moving to the table on her right. It was wooden, with wheels attached to the bottom; a vintage bar cart. On top, rested several bottles of wine and whiskey, as well as some Quintin Black, a bottle of which she hadn't seen in quite some time.

The brunette faced him, smartly. "Your attempts at getting me drunk are cute."

"What are you —" His voice hitched. "I'm not trying to —"

"Relax," Hermione laughed, skirting past him and towards the cart, where she uncorked a bottle of wine and poured two glasses, handing one to him before taking a sip from her own. "Mmm…what is this?"

His eyes were focused on her lips for an extra moment, before snapping back. "Superior Red," he replied, with the smallest hint of surprise. "You've never heard of it?"

"Huh," she voiced. "Can't say I have."

"Look there," he instructed, holding the bottle between them, brushing his thumb over the label.

"Mal —" Bewildered, her attention bounced to him. "I had no idea your family manufactured wine."

He laughed a little. "Where do you think the money comes from?"

Hermione shrugged, sharing his countenance. "Just the usual: laundering, extortion, and embezzlement. It all ties in together, really."

"Har har…" he chided, sounding nothing close to insulted. "There goes your complimentary bottle."

"Do you send all your dates home with a bottle of wine?" she asked, teasingly. "Or just the ones you don't plan on seeing again?"

Malfoy arched his brow, with a faint smirk. "I had no idea this was a date," he smoothly answered.

Her cheeks flushed scarlet. "You know what I mean."

"Perhaps not," he inserted. "I don't date much. Never been in a proper relationship."

"What about Pansy?" she casually asked.

He snorted with laughter. "That was never a thing."

"It sure looked like a thing back in school," Hermione voiced, flicking her eyes at him. "I'd venture so far as to say, you were her favourite subject."

"Precisely," he reasoned. "It was one-sided."

"Huh," she voiced, again.

Malfoy looked at her, smiling. "What about you and Weasley? I'd _love_ to know what happened there."

She responded to his sarcastic tone with a lazy glare. "More like what didn't happen."

"Weasel King was too scared to tie the knot?"

"Bingo," she confirmed, mid-sip.

Malfoy nodded in thought. "I'd figured as much."

Hermione swallowed her mouthful. "Because the thought of marrying me is so unbearable?" she asked, in a teasing manner.

"Wouldn't you love to know," he chimed, tossing her a discreet wink as he moved to the window, leaning against the sill with one hand in his pocket and the other around his glass, swirling before each sip.

She paused a moment, keeping her back turned in an attempt to hide the vivid red of her cheeks.

It was soon — _far _too soon to be discussing such matters.

But the undertones remained.

Hermione forced the lingering heat further down her esophagus and moved to the windowsill, beside him. It happened in slow succession. She felt his eyes bounce to her legs, one of which had been wrapped firm around his waist not a moment ago. It was back again — that prickling heat. On the verge of passing out, she downed the remainder of her wine in one stream. Her skin burned with the memories, of his mouth on her neck and his hands on her waist.

But nothing burned more, than the sensation of being pressed up against him, against his heat. In response to this, her muscles tensed. _Merlin, he's delicious…_

"Truth or dare?" he then asked, as though he'd waited all night.

She faced him, cheeks aflame. The answer was clear. "Dare."

* * *

It was clear as day.

Draco studied her for the better part of the next moment. It was difficult not to. She was there, beside him, in his house, in his bedroom, within reaching distance. If he so much as shifted an inch to the right, their bodies would touch, and as tempting as that sounded, he couldn't. After mauling her in his office, the next move would have to be from her. It was clear she wanted him, in some capacity, but he didn't want to pull the trigger without knowing for sure.

That in mind, he formed his response.

"I dare you to do exactly what's on your mind," he voiced, noting the colour of her cheeks, the rhythm of her chest, the airiness of her eyes and the manner in which his body responded to her.

It happened slowly, spanning tens of seconds — _minutes_.

Granger said nothing.

She chose instead to focus on the dare, to lift the wine glass from his grasp, to set it on the floor with hers, to rise from the windowsill, to turn her body toward his, to move closer, to unconsciously brush his skin with the ends of her hair as she leaned forward, to wrap her arms gently around his neck and shoulders, to balance both knees on either side of him and cause his trousers to tighten, as she lowered.

"Not so fast…" she softly cautioned, swatting his hands before they reached her hips. "This is _my_ dare."

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but his words were cut short. Granger silenced him, placing her index finger over his lips and pressing down on his lap, watching the way his countenance wavered from heat to burning, uncontrollable fire. It was quite sadistic. But, he didn't mind submitting to this woman. He rather craved it.

Miles deep in the sensation of Hermione Granger firm on his lap, where she belonged, he barely noticed when she leaned forward and skimmed her lips over the shell of his ear.

"Listen to me," she whispered, adding to the hardness in his trousers with nothing but her voice. "In about five seconds, I'm going to kiss the smirk off those lips…and you, Draco Malfoy, are going to take it."

With immense restraint, he kept from tearing her dress to shreds and burying his tongue deep in her cunt. Merlin, the things he wished to do, the pleasure he wished to give this witch. Just the sound of her voice drove him mad with longing. If she kept up her touching and her teasing, he would have no choice but to teach her an important lesson with his mouth between her legs.

Granger cautioned him again with a single, penetrating look and then slowly, put action to her words. She kissed him, in a way that told him he couldn't kiss back until she said so. It was light but hard, and burned him from the inside out. Unlike their previous kiss, her lips moved with confidence and conviction. It was clear she had something in mind; that she wanted to turn him into a hot, writhing mess. Between her lips, she sucked on his, releasing him with a wet _pop _and then deepening the kiss, exploring his mouth with her tongue. It took every ounce of self-control he had left, to not kiss back. Particularly, when she chose to lower the kiss, to suck and to bite the flesh of his neck, down the column of his throat.

Around that time, when he decided he could hold back no more, the brunette separated from his neck and whispered two words to him.

_Join me._

Delirious from the build-up, Draco followed her command and buried his hands through her hair, bringing her face to his for a medley of lips and tongue. She tensed and then melted, moaning into the kiss with her chest aflutter. It was perhaps the most erotic kiss he'd ever experienced. Judging by her reaction, the same was true for Granger — for _Hermione_. His lips devoured hers, moulding to them and tugging on them and in a bold move, biting lightly with her bottom lip between his teeth.

She moaned again, heavier. "Oh, Draco…"

Just the sound of his name on her tongue, made his muscles harden with anticipation.

"I've…wanted this…_wanted_ _you_…for so long," he told her between kisses, dragging his lips to the pulse of her neck, nibbling there. "So long…"

In his arms, she softened, rolling her head back. "Me, too…"

He secured an arm around her waist, holding her close as he disentangled the knots from her muscles with only his mouth. First her neck, and then her shoulders, and then lower, reaching the neckline of her dress. Hermione quivered against him, against his touch. Slowly, at a pace in which she could have stopped him, had she wanted to, his hands pushed the biker jacket from her shoulders and then skimmed the back of her dress, locating the zipper. She didn't object. She instead leaned into the crevice of his neck and kissed him there, as he dragged the zipper down her back.

Once that was done, he brushed the bottom hem of her dress, slipping underneath and moving up; slave to the scorching heat that was her bare skin. Several tremors ran the length of her body, as he did this. In that moment, it was clear what she wanted and that he planned on giving it to her.

Minutes of this, of his hands exploring her back and her sides, and she eventually raised her arms; cheeks ablaze, as he lifted the dress from her body, removing it in one gradual motion. Draco tossed the material to the floor, and beheld the sight before him. She was at on his lap in nothing but lace: white brassiere and matching knickers, with the faintest hint of her blush pink nipples visible beneath the upper garment. His eyes burned with hard, rooted longing. It wasn't long after that, that he swept her in another kiss. This time, along the bone her clavicle, where he sucked vigorously, stirring another moan from her parted lips.

"Gods…" she breathed. "How is this…How can I…"

It seemed her mind was buzzing with the same thoughts, the same questions.

Draco dispelled those questions with his next words."I'm yours…" he murmured to her.

Her chest contracted. "Mine?"

"Yours," he confirmed, moving to her lips. "If you'll have me, that is…"

She whimpered, helpless to her own desires and the way each of them revolved around him. Seconds after that, his hands cupped her breasts, directly over the brassiere, and he kneaded them in slow circles, whilst returning her starved, indecent kisses with some indecency of his own. Like strings on a harp, they played to one another's senses with wicked determination. Draco, as he unclasped her bra and then bowed down, smoothing his tongue over her nipples, capturing one after the other in wet heat. Hermione, as she pressed down against him, against his hardness, stimulating him with the roll of her hips.

Something rumbled deep in his chest, and he groaned. Perhaps it was time to teach her that lesson.

It was then, that Draco secured his arms around her waist and lifted her from the windowsill. She gasped softly, startled but not unwilling. This witch was eager, and he loved that about her. Though, not half as much as he loved the look in her eyes, as he carried her across the room and lowered her to the foot of the bed. She devoured him in that one look, leaning back on both arms with her breasts bare, watching him as he tugged the shirt from over his head and tossed it to the pile of clothes on the floor.

Her gaze dropped down his lean, muscled torso.

"Oh_…_" she breathed, drinking in the v-line that framed his lower abdomen.

Draco held his position for an extra moment, with the faintest smirk on his lips. It was nice being gawked at by the likes of Hermione Granger. More than nice. But even that feeling couldn't surpass the one that stirred deep in his core, where the gap between her legs beckoned him forth. He moved closer to the bed, aware of the colour that danced across her cheeks and the simultaneous heat in those eyes. From there, he fell to his knees, almost level with her due to their height difference, and with one hand through her hair, he kissed her.

She kissed back, frantic in the way her lips craved his.

Despite this, he separated from them, moving down her body, slowly.

Hermione trembled in response. It had to be the first time in a long time, since anyone had done this for her. Draco was, of course, the happiest, most willing candidate. Night after night, he'd dreamt about what she'd feel like against his tongue, about her taste and about the sounds such an act would inspire. On their second night, he described it to her, what he would have done, had she been there for him to touch and to kiss.

But this was no longer about words.

Bearing that, his tongue cascaded her torso and found the hem of her knickers with one swipe. Hermione waited, with bright eyes and swift awakening, thirsting for him as he ghosted his lips over the white lace, where her body had responded to each of his maneuvers.

_Fuck_, he thought, muscles aching from how bad he wanted her. _She's gloriously wet. _

Sensing his inner monologue, the brunette blushed harder. Draco was left unaware, as this time he carried on, without another second to spare. He hooked his fingers into her knickers and removed them, down her legs and then into the pile. Before him, was her nakedness. Vulnerable to his heated gaze, her hand moved to cover the place between her legs, where he noticed a small, manicured triangle of chocolate brown hair.

He was delighted to see it was almost as frizzy as the hair on the top of her head.

"Shut up…" she chided, embarrassed at the smile that danced across his lips.

The man looked to her, only then realizing she was frowning. "Hermione," he softly dictated, holding her hands in his and lacing their fingers together, bringing her wrists to his mouth, where he kissed them, each over the echo of her heart. "If you'd allow it, I'd love nothing more than to kiss _every inch_ of your body."

She tensed. "You mean…?"

Draco nodded, dropping his gaze to the uncovered wealth between those legs. He didn't think it possible, but she really was beautiful _everywhere_. On instinct, he licked his lips. She watched, intent on keeping her silence, whilst tantalized by the look in his eyes.

It happened slowly.

Hermione spread for him, breathing in as he moved closer. Just an inch or two from where he started, and already he caught scent of her arousal. Draco steadied the drum in his chest, bringing his heartbeat to a calm, even pace, before bowing his head lower and snaking his arms under her legs and around her arse, in rhythm with the moment he had his first taste.

Eyes shut and cheeks flushed, her entire body shook. "Oh…Oh, my gosh…"

It was the best feeling, knowing he'd inspired those sounds. She arched her midsection toward him, with her hands in his hair and an almost possessed look about her face. Draco carried on, breaking her seam with the tip of his tongue. She tasted sweeter than he expected. Starting slow, and then increasing the pace at which he licked her out, he lavished that pussy. Kissing, licking, sucking, and nibbling. Seconds, and he found the perfect combination; a blend between stiffened, hardened flicks, and smooth, rousing strokes. It drove her mad, in a way that told him he had to keep going — not that he had the slightest intent to stop.

"Draco…" she breathed, again. "Oh, fuck…"

The sound of that word blanketed by her moans, was more than his body could handle.

Desperate to release some of the pressure, he quickly unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers. It didn't help much, but it helped some. He kept them on, and allowed them to slide down an inch or two, as his tongue worked at Hermione Granger's mouthwatering clit.

Quivering against him in full-bodied motions, she urged him deeper between her legs. Draco took this as his cue to up the ante. With his thumbs, he parted her lower lips and blew air over her silky bits. She was practically convulsing by this point, but he wasn't done. The pureblood carried on, outlining her entrance with his index finger and capturing her clit in another lustful kiss.

"Oh my…Oh, _gods_…" Her breath hitched, the moment he bathed his finger in her heat.

Inside, he twisted his finger and beckoned her as best he could. _Merlin, she's unbelievably tight. _It didn't surprise him one bit. She hadn't been with anyone in quite some time. But the fact that he could fit no more than one finger in her wet channel, was downright unfathomable.

Draco furthered his efforts, foreshadowing the events to follow with quick work of his finger, and flicking her taut nub with the tip of his tongue, as if spelling out an apology for the years upon years of torment. It skidded through his mind in a flash, on slides, before her burst of pleasure broke his concentration.

She tightened around him, muscles tense and rigid, riding through the climax with unparalleled bliss, until releasing, feathering to the bed in blend of breaths and breathlessness.

He watched, moist-eyed and wondrous.

He had done that to her. He had dragged her to that sweet, euphoric state. Not once. Not twice. _Three _times — but the first and second time, mattered little to him. It was all about that moment. It was all about _that_ night.

She exhaled, staring into the ceiling. "That was…"

"Less than you imagined?" he asked, climbing in, laying down beside her.

Hermione turned to him, brows in the air. "Are you mental? I…I've never…" Her cheeks flushed. "Never mind."

Draco studied her, through the corner of his eye. It was clear, the thoughts racing through her mind. If he had to be honest, the same thoughts were racing through his. Only, he knew the truth. "Gr — _Hermione_," he swiftly corrected. "I meant what I said earlier, about being yours."

"Did you?" she asked, as though she tried to sound casual, but failed miserably.

"I did," he confirmed. "I do."

The brunette tensed a little. "You don't have to —"

"I know," he interjected, sensing it before the words left her lips. "I know I don't have to — but I want to. I've wanted to for a long time. Haven't you?"

Her features softened. "Yes," she answered, quietly. "I have."

Slowly, he reached for her hand and she accepted. It was strangely affectionate, seeing as there was once a point in their lives, wherein they couldn't stand to be in the same vicinity. Since then, their dynamic had long changed. Draco wasn't sure he could ever revert back to being enemies — or worse, _strangers_. For a reason he didn't quite understand, the thought of never seeing her again left an inconsolable lump in his chest. It grew, the longer he thought about it.

"What are you thinking about?" Hermione asked, noting the change in his expression.

His conviction on the topic didn't waver. "Us."

She studied him, for a long while. "If you're interested, there's an outdoor viewing of '_A Streetcar Named Desire' _in the park across beside my building. It's tomorrow at midnight. I was supposed to go with Ginny but she double-booked, which…leaves me with an extra ticket."

Draco faced her, surprised. "Are you asking me out?"

Her face blanched. "I — You — "

He chuckled at her expense. "Oh, Granger. Don't be stupid. Of course, I'll go with you."

She relaxed, tossing him an imminent glare, but smiling nonetheless.

Particularly, when he brought her hand to his lips and kissed, with a swift wink. "_Dear Diary,_" he teased. "_Today, Hermione Jean Granger asked me out._"

"You know my middle name?" the brunette questioned, taken aback.

"Oh, there are plenty of things I know about you."

"Like?"

"_Like_," he enunciated. "That fact that you have more of a hard-on for that first edition copy of _Ulysses, _than you do for me."

Hermione burst into a fit of laughter. "Oh, believe me. No one has more of a hard-on for you, than you do for yourself."

To this, his lips twitched with amusement. Draco cracked up, tilting his head backward, filling the space between them with laughter like he had never known. Never in a million years, would he have anticipated the night to have gone so…smoothly. There was, of course, a momentary glitch down in his office, but he was glad they were able to address those issues before anything happened.

"By the way," the brunette added, drawing his attention back to her as she rolled onto her side, facing him with an indecipherable look in those bright, brown orbs. "You're wrong."

Draco looked to her, stifling what remained of his laughter. "What d'you mean?"

Hermione closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, they were filled with tenderness; redolent of the undertones — past and present. She used one finger to trace his forearm, where his skin burned under her touch, ignited by their connection.

"I don't think I've ever wanted something…_someone_…as much as I want you," she confessed. "I couldn't focus during that concert. I…I must have missed three or four songs, just thinking about all those things you said to me during our calls. I couldn't believe it was you…and to be honest, I still can't."

He blinked. "Maybe I can help with that…"

She smiled, thoughtfully. "I think you've done plenty to convince me. Now, it's my turn."

Draco stared at her, quizzically; startled, as she rose into upright position before positioning herself on top of him, straddling him whilst balancing her featherlight weight on both knees. She then lowered, kissing him. But his efforts to reciprocate were interrupted, as she moved her kiss from his mouth, down his body. For one, staggeringly long second, he couldn't wrap his head around what was about to happen.

She worked past his pectoral muscles, to his abdomen. Draco watched her, aware of the thickened, lustful, smoke-filled veil that ghosted over his eyes. Just then, she reached his trousers, sparing a moment to look at him, before hooking her fingers under the waistband and dragging his trousers down.

His throat clenched.

His eyes closed.

Dreams turned into fears and the world caved in around them, the moment her hand brushed his length.

* * *

_Gods._

In the back of her mind, she heard the lyrics to '_I Wanna Be Yours_' echo in the voice of Alex Turner.

Hermione watched him, caught in the rapture of his satisfaction, as his length grew to full mast. Unable to do anything else, she wrapped her fingers around him. His size alone, was enough to stir the most devilish thoughts in her mind but nothing compared to the feeling that swirled in her core, the moment she stroked down and uncovered him.

_Dear sweet lord,_ she thought distantly. _His cock is magnificent. _

Coloured white like the rest of him, but flushed under the sweltering heat of his arousal, he stood an even nine inches, with enough girth to make the space between his lover's legs whirl with longing. She ran her tongue between her lips, moistening them, aware that his eyes were on her as she came down on him.

His muscles tightened, one after the other. "Oh, fuck _me_…"

With one thorough lick, she moistened his head with her own heat, whilst bathing her tongue in his. In the most carnal sense, he ran one hand through her hair, lacing her curly strands between his fingers, careful not to rise too high off the bed or choke her with his unfathomable length. She lapped him up, sampling his lustful, masculine essence. If it were possible, he tasted better down there than he did mouth to mouth. But that was her own arousal talking.

Hermione released him with a damp _pop_, and scooted closer, positioning herself directly between his legs, using one hand to stroke him and employing the other below, massaging him there. Startled by this move, he tensed around her; not with alarm, but with ardor. She came down on him again, taking as much of him as she could, lightly grazing his skin with her teeth, enough to make his toes curl and his eyes roll to the back of his head, in rhythm with both her hands as she worked at him from every possible angle.

Again and again, her tongue lapped him and lavished him. Never in her life had she been so aroused from pleasuring another person. With other men, it was laborious and exhausting, and made her mouth and jaw ache, but with him it was _electrifying_. She sucked on him hard, aware of his strangled words, aware of his praise and the string of expletives under which it was veiled. Nothing felt better than knowing she could turn him into as much of a hot, twisted mess as he could, her.

Endless nights spent wondering, whether this man could put action to his words. She found out that night, that he could, and that he was able to awaken something within her; her inner lion, brought to life by his wicked snake.

Hissing to her, his accolade, through his firmly clenched jaw, Draco tightened once more. In her mouth as well as his body. She continued her assault on his senses, pumping him fast and hard, loving the way his entire being responded to her movements, running her tongue from bottom to top and then over the head of his cock, where she enveloped him in the hardest suck of his life.

"Stop —" he demanded, spiralling her out of the motion the moment she hoped he would come apart.

Hermione tossed one look at him, flustered and feverish in her own right, certain she had hurt him or done something wrong, until it happened. He launched at her, lifting her with both arms and pinning her against the headboard with their faces inches apart.

By that point, her heart was pounding with unfound intensity.

She opened her mouth. "What are you —"

Draco cut her words short, swift and without mercy, pressing his lips to hers with urgency, delivering to her his thoughts with nothing but a kiss, before breaking apart. Panting and dazed, his mouth hovered one, maybe two centimetres from hers. "I need you now," he relayed to her, voice drenched in quivering heat. "I need to have you, Hermione."

It was soon after that — _seconds_, maybe faster.

The song in the back of her mind came to an end, replaced with her own chorus, as she widened her legs and felt the head of Draco Malfoy's succulent cock rub between her lower lips. Chest aflutter, Hermione grasped his shoulders, biting down on her bottom lip and releasing a fragmented cry, as he entered her. She gasped, overcome with the feeling of each inch, plunging deeper and deeper; so deep her head was beginning to spin.

"You feel so good…so _tight…_" he murmured over her lips.

By then, her words were lodged so far back, there was no hope of finding them. Instead, she tightened her hold on his shoulders, with her back firm against the headboard, panting from the sensation of being filled to the depths of her womb. She stretched to accommodate him, wrapping his length with the wetness and the tightness of her channel, as he moved all the way in and then all the way out.

Hermione whimpered against him. "…Please…more…"

He combed the hair from her face and kissed her, feeling her moans vibrate from his mouth down to his cock, as he filled her in. She tilted her head back, thankful that his hand was there to save her from hitting the board. Sensing her need to move and ride the waves between them, he lowered her onto the mattress, where she lifted her left leg over his shoulder and met his slow, lustful thrusts.

It couldn't have felt better, she thought.

But even that was proven wrong, as Draco moved his lips to her neck and licked her throat, with the same heart-stopping motion as below. She was on fire — every inch of her body. Hermione strained to murmur some sort of praise to him, something to convey how glorious this felt and how badly she needed him, but she couldn't. Instead, she dragged her fingernails along the skin of his back, undoubtedly marking him. It didn't seem to bother him. In fact, his response was rather the opposite.

Faster and with more fire each time, he filled her in with his nine inches of raw masculinity.

If ever someone told her, she would one day beg to be fucked by Draco Malfoy, she would have sent that person to St. Mungo's that same second…but now, the thought of being fucked by anyone else made _her_ feel like the crazy person. How could she ever, in what remained of her existence, dream of being with someone with as much skill and sensuality, as the man whose body was currently suspended above hers? It wasn't about his looks or his riches. It was more than that. It was the way he _knew_ her, despite himself and despite everything they had endured in the name of their rivalry.

Hermione could think of only one person who knew her as well as he, apart from her family, and that was Harry. But her thoughts were far from her bespectacled best friend. She could think of only one man.

It occurred to her then, what to do next.

She hooked her leg around his torso and reversed them into a position that left her on top. Draco froze mid-thrust; his cheeks blood red and his chest beating hard. He opened his mouth, as though to ask how she had done that, but he was silenced in a matter of seconds, as Hermione used the time to lower herself onto him.

His eyes slammed shut. His hands dug into her hips. His breathing intensified and from his lips, escaped an animalistic sound of approval. Close to a growl, but with the added flare of a single, definitive word.

_Witch._

Hermione would have smiled, were her lips capable of doing anything other than shape to her moans. She both hated and loved, that being on top felt equally sensational for her, as it did for him. Her eyes strained to stay open, but the harder she came down on him and the faster he met her movements, the more difficult it became to concentrate on anything apart from the slow building knot inside her. Inch by inch, his length worked to disentangle that knot. But she couldn't lose herself before he. Not again.

Still, he felt so, _so_ unbearably enormous. It was all she could do not to bounce on him once, twice, three times and collapse into another state of orgasmic bliss. Had she known Draco Malfoy was packing this much heat, she would have put action to those fantasies and fucked him to the very core of the earth, _with _his Slytherin Quidditch uniform still on.

But her thoughts soon fluttered away from those fantasies, as Draco did one better, using his core strength to swing upright. In that position, he held her close to his chest, with their dampened lips and fast-beating hearts suspended millimetres apart.

Hermione lost herself in it, melting against him, as he thrusted to the skies with her on his lap. Arms now tight around the back of his neck, she moved with him, caught in wave after wave of bliss. Not soon after that, did their movements become fast and frantic, each racing to make the other come undone first. She, with the edible points of her breasts and the tightness of her slit, and he, with the overwhelming size of his hardness and the manner in which he knew exactly which beats to hit and when.

It wasn't long after that.

Slave to the incandescence of their sex turned lovemaking, Hermione came apart first, tightening around Draco, causing him to follow in the steps of her rapturous, sweat-slicked madness. She gasped his name, voice scratchy from the endless, deep-seated moans; heart racing; adrenaline surging through every inch of her body; and then…_ecstasy_. Better than any drug or any drink she had ever consumed, was the raw, no holds barred sensation of coming down from the heights of orgasmic heaven. It rippled through her, at the exact moment it rippled through him.

One minute, maybe longer…and finally, their bodies collapsed to the bed in slow motion.

Somewhere along the line, Draco staved off his exhaustion long enough to yank the covers over them and after that, came the aftermath of their hushed love affair.

* * *

**_Midnight, the Next Day —_**

Crisp winds blowing and autumn leaves stirring, the brave souls who chose to endure the cold that night, had found their places in the park. It wasn't large like the one in Serpent's Crossing, but Draco found he quite liked the simplicity of Muggle parks — almost as much as the simplicity of Muggle theatre. To his knowledge '_A Streetcar Named Desire_' was originally a stage production, penned by the famed Tennessee Williams.

But that night, the fifty or so people that had gathered outside were there to watch the successful, highly publicized _film_ adaptation, starring Vivien Leigh and Marlon Brando. It was an older film, released sometime in the fifties, which meant black and white visuals. His favourite. There was something about the grainy, textured look of early film that made the stories and the lines echo that much deeper.

Caught in these thoughts, Draco failed to notice one particular brunette, as she approached the spot he had reserved for them, with a bundle of blankets and cushions, and some snacks to munch on during the film.

"Say…" she voiced, dressed in a trench coat, with her hands on her hips and her hair falling to her elbows in tight spirals. "Aren't you Draco Malfoy?"

Draco turned, facing the brunette; a faint smirk on his lips. "Depends…" he smoothly inserted, popping one of the Honeyduke's sweets into his mouth. "Who's asking?"

She moved closer, wielding the exposed parts of her legs like weapons. "I believe _I'm _asking…"

For a moment he simply watched this woman, delving deeper into those bright, brown eyes until little else mattered. Taking his cue, she moved even closer and then lowered onto the blanket, in their place not too far but not too close from the screen. The film hadn't started, and it appeared both of them wished to hold off on the production one moment longer — maybe two.

Draco inhaled, catching her scent of her light perfume, as she neared. So close now, he could count each individual freckle that dotted her cheeks and nose.

But the moment she leaned in, eyes fluttering shut with her lips moving towards his — he leaned away.

"Sorry," he apologized, allowing his smirk to transition into a smile. "I have a girlfriend."

"Is that so?" she asked.

Unable to stop himself, he tucked a loose curl behind her ear. "I hope so. I mean…I did come all the way here to ask her if she wants to make things official…but she's late, you see…"

"Well…" the brunette voiced, absorbed in his touch. "I'm sure she's around somewhere…"

Draco nodded slowly, leaning towards her. "Maybe you should keep me company until she arrives…" he suggested, speaking softly, quietly, with his lips millimetres from hers. "How does that sound?"

"Perfect," she whispered. "Because I have a boyfriend…"

His heartbeat quickened. "Well, I'll be damned if he's not the luckiest man in the world."

"Oh, I'm sure luck has nothing to do with it," the woman in the trench coat furthered, running her fingers along the collar of his jacket, before grasping it lightly and with a faint smile, pulling him towards her.

This time, he had no objections.

**The End**


End file.
